


The Author Returns (The AuthorXDetective!Reader)

by NightEzra



Category: Markiplier/reader - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Don't get pulled in, Gen, Run, The AuthorXDetective!Reader, Time for something new, XReader, before it's too late, detective!reader, markiplier egos/reader, markiplier/reader - Freeform, markiplier/you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightEzra/pseuds/NightEzra
Summary: The Author is tired of wasting away-it is time for something new. Something fresh...But he needs new characters.Care to follow him down the rabbit hole?
Comments: 22
Kudos: 10





	1. Author's Note

Hello! I’m Night Ezra and I welcome you to this story. First off, gotta list a couple of folks that inspired this, especially since I, myself, was not all that familiar with some of the characters you will see here today. Without these folks, I am not sure I would be able to write this piece quite as well.

So! First off, for inspiration with the Author, an individual known as the Host has been a great help in understanding his character and his portrayal. We were able to meet on a server and that is where I was able to learn more about them and see a side that I normally have not been able to gauge. It has honestly helped me a lot more and to even close some gaps in other areas but that is all I will say about that, heh heh. Really, they are a wonderful being and I hope you will go and check them out! Small note: their medias are not open currently but, when they are, please please please check them out! Here is where you can find them:

[ https://ahostofsorts.tumblr.com/ ](https://ahostofsorts.tumblr.com/)

[ https://twitter.com/AHostofSorts ](https://twitter.com/AHostofSorts)

[ instagram.com/thehostofsorts/?hl=en ](https://www.instagram.com/thehosthq/?hl=en)

As for another individual you may not encounter _immediately_ but will certainly play a role further in the story is Bim Trimmer, inspired by another wonderful individual known as Vie! They were also in the same server and I got to see how they brought this character to life. From the language to the craziest run ins, they showed that Bim is so much more than just a showman. They are a pretty great artist too so I encourage you to check them out if ya happen to not know them yet:

[ https://www.instagram.com/smoothiepulp/?hl=en ](https://www.instagram.com/smoothiepulp/?hl=en)

[ https://solarevie.tumblr.com/ ](https://solarevie.tumblr.com/)

Please be respectful to these folks if ya do visit, I care about them deeply and appreciate them for everything they’ve done. They are great beings with valid identities. I will not hesitate to drop kick someone for these folks.

Anywho! Up next, just a little note on the text itself, this is an XReader _BUT!_ It does not have the Reader become romantic with the Author. It does, however, involve the Reader in the story plot. Another thing to note though is that the Reader will not be the sole focus in _this_ book. There will be three perspectives revolving throughout (all in third person (save yours)): the Author’s, the Character(s), and, of course, yours, the Detective. Mostly, the text will revolve around the Author and the Character(s), but the Detective will have their role to play as well, do not worry haha.

Small note: Some of the things done as the Detective will not be accurate. Just, imagine you attended the same place as Abe the Detective but also not if you get my gist. Most things done are for the sake of the story.

Another thing to note, this will be unlike anything I have written before. This note right here will be the only Author’s Note you will have (apart from in Chapter One where it tells you to go read this one), I’m sending ya out there with a backpack of words and wishing you luck, you ain’t getting nothing from me, not even a little *Time Skip!*, nah ah, you’ll just be able to tell when time passes on your own. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine...mostly.

Another thing: This book will have three parts to it. Right now, I will be posting weekly the first part (which is about twenty-something chapters (mostly for building up of what is happening)). You will see why it is in parts as you go and read but, I promise you, it is worth the amount. I wanted to give everyone a spotlight and provide them enough room to be able to show their talents in full. They have so much to them and I want to show it. They deserve to be seen.

Finally: There is another story intertwined with this book. It will not come to full fruition until the following book but look out for those easter eggs, try to figure out the story. That will be your personal job, Detective ;)

I hope you enjoy this, I put a whole lot of myself into this and I really, really do like how it came out. This is all I will say to you until we reach the end of the first part (unless I finish the second part and don’t have to ask for time-thennnn you will see me after the second part, and, if not, maybe the end of the book haha!)

Good luck, Detective. _See you soon~!_


	2. Chapter 1

**_A.N. DID YOU READ THE AUTHOR’S NOTE? NO? Go do so or you may have questions-Otherwise-Enjoy! ^^_ **

Picture yourself, living the best life, pursuing your goals, your dreams, your wants. You have everything you can ever need, _will_ ever need. Life is yours to take; nothing is left to lose. You are the creator, the master of the world around you.

Yet, somewhere along that road of greatness, you lose yourself. Something goes wrong, some part of you stumbles and you lose your step. The world slips from you without regard and you crumble. You never admit this though. Time tells it for you.

You lose your way and have to find something to be able to come back, take back what is yours. 

Or, at least, make a new path.

The man in a dark striped dress shirt sits in his chair, watching the shelf of his older works. The way they sit there, collecting dust as he has not the heart—not the _will_ to look back through them. A past he is unfamiliar with as the reviews scattering the floor talk about them, _cherish_ them.

_ “The suspense, the drive, all of it meshes together to create this perfect story.” _

_ “This psychopath acts as though his actions are not truly his own, making the reader want to believe him—spectacular.” _

_ “Amazing!” _

_ “There will never be another series like it.” _

The man grimaces as the review passes his mind. He tosses his head to the article with the abominable statement. “Never another series like it?” he mutters, standing and taking hold of the article. “Of course there won’t be another series like it. There will be other series— _better_ series.”

_ “This character is a fantastic work of art!” _

His attention is drawn to the other review and he picks it up, growling. “He was just some character, he did not matter, I didn’t need _him_ to be the character!” He feels a pulse beat through him and looks over to the shelf to one of the unfinished works; the _only_ unfinished work. He shakes his head, tearing it off of the shelf and flipping through the pages. “Look, he doesn’t exist. So what if he wasn’t compliant the moment I worked with him? I could always get another one; he means nothing.” He takes hold of the separate covers and raises it up, glaring. It doesn’t matter to him, it doesn’t. There are other stories, other characters, this story means _nothing_.

His arms tremble as he snarls, throwing the book at the wall across from him. He breathes, wiping his face. “It doesn’t mean anything to me, right.” He shakes his head, looking at the reviews once more.

_ “Absolutely stunning.” _

_ “A masterpiece.” _

He shakes his head, moving away from them. “This, that wasn’t it, that wasn’t the end of it. No I, I have more! I have more potential beyond whatever hell they tore me through! You don’t know what you’re saying, I’m not finished!”

He stares at himself on the empty tv screen. He is hunched over, aggravated, seemingly insane. Talking to himself, trying to tell people that cannot hear him that they are wrong. Old reviews dated by the years that draw on his features: his hair is more erratic, less clean, his button up is jacked up; he does not care anymore for what he wears or how he carries himself. He has gone in circles over and over again trying to make a new point to the reviews that tell him otherwise, losing himself, losing his ability to function as an author. He is _nothing_ without his characters—

He wheezes out a laugh, pushing back and shaking his head, trying to shake the thought. “I, That, Ohhh, hah ha haah, that, that is _wrong._ ” He looks around. “I am still an author; I am _the_ Author. I don’t need them! I, I don’t need anyone, I can always start something. I know I can, I am the Author—…” He pauses. “Maybe...maybe maybe maybe—”

He strides forward, searching for something. He retrieves a pen and a crisp, aged journal. He writes:

_‘The Author’s tale is only beginning. With a stroke of a pen, he begins to write his next masterpiece.’_

He stands there, closing his eyes and bidding his will be done. 

Nothing happens.

He grips the journal and scratches out the segment.

_‘The Author is not through yet, there are stories to write. He needs’_

He shakes his head, scratching it out.

_‘He ‘will’ continue to write. It is what he is meant to do.’_

He waits once more. But, once again, nothing takes.

“Bastard.” He chucks the journal at the desk, the pen following soon after, both falling over the edge. “I’m not done. I am _not_ done.” He breathes, shaking away the pain beginning to sink into his head from trying to write himself into the narrative. He knows better but he cannot help but try. He whines airly, leaning on a chair behind him a bit too heavily, soon sending him and the chair crashing to the ground.

He lies against pine wood flooring, pulses of thoughts and words raking through him.

 _ ‘ _ **_ Finished. _ ** _ ’ _

_ ‘ _ **_ Brat. _ ** _ ’ _

_ ‘ _ **_ Useless. _ ** _ ’ _

_ ‘ _ **_ One time big shot. _ ** _ ’ _

_ ‘ _ **_ Pathetic. _ ** _ ’ _

He tries to move but finds the motion taking more energy than he has. He breathes, shutting his eyes and willing the taunts, the aches away. He is not done. He is not finished. He is more, he will be more, he _must_ be more. He has to be…

***

He lies on the ground, the pain just now beginning to recede after…

His eyes roll over to the clock on the wall. An hour.

He groans, letting his head linger on the ground. How does he always find himself having an affair with the floor? Next time he will surely share beds with some lint.

He frowns. He really is pathetic.

He just needs something to motivate him, something to grab his attention. Something, _anything—_

_Knock knock knock!_

_‘...Well, that was quick.’_

As he goes to move, an envelope is pushed through the letterbox on the door, landing just next to his head. He raises an eyebrow, taking hold of it and glancing at who it is from. Gregory Larson. “Oh you poor thing, who named you?” He sighs, sitting up and taking a glance at the address for a moment before tearing it open. It is a letter. A fan letter.

He reads through it with minor amusement, chuckling at the mentions of some of his greatest scenes including having the little character take a rather large whiff of a fart. His eyes scan through the letter coming upon the beginning mentions of a story suggestion to which he pauses. Ah. Of course. A _suggestion_ , an _idea_. His grip on the letter tightens as he continues reading the little ideas given here and there, a condolence to his writer’s block with an understanding of how it is like to not be able to write. Sure.

_ “I cannot wait to see what you do next. I know it will be great.” _

“What I do next…” He shakes his head, crumpling up the letter and tossing it to the side. “You’re rooting for a losing battle—...” He stares at the reviews on the ground, then to the walls around him, laughing, _mocking_ him and his stagnant nature. He looks at the journals on the shelves with words that resonate with someone's adventures in the past, all in the past, in the past— _He_ is in the past.

He needs something new. Something new…

He looks at the envelope. _Someone_ new…

He plucks up the envelope, studying the words and trying to retain it before opting to stuff it in his pocket. He gets up taking a deep breath before moving to his room and beginning to pack.

Soon enough, he is next to the door, essentials packed and ready to go, all tucked away in a suitcase. He reaches for the handle, then pauses, feeling the pulses of his journals eating away at his back. “...” He turns to them, eyeing their dark coverings. They are still good…

_ “The best ever written.” _

_ “There will  _ **_ never  _ ** _ be another.” _

“...” He sets down the suitcase, making his way past the shelves and coming back with a container of gas.

There _will_ be others.

He coats the room and the journals in the potent smell, hearing them weep through the coats of petrol but providing them no comfort, not any longer. He does not need them anymore.

He scours around the area and retrieves a match box. He chuckles, plucking a single matchstick. He lights it and, without a blink of an eye, tosses it toward the shelves. Immediately, the gas catches it, welcoming the flames to take hold of all that it touches and more. The Author holds an arm over his face as he dares to linger, smirking as the journals have their inky tears caressed away by the flames. He turns around and goes to pick up his suitcase only to catch sight of the crumpled letter. He watches it a little while before picking it up, stuffing it into another pocket and quickly picking up the case. As he makes his way out the door, he is sure to grab up his metal bat, resting it against his shoulder as he makes his way onwards towards a new life, a new story, a new pace.

This is the beginning of a new tale for the— _BOOM!_

The Author practically flies forward as the force knocks him away. It appears he forgot the very real gas stove connected to his gas supply. So much for walking away in style...It may be a good time to run though—

He scrambles up and runs as another explosion roars through the woods.

***

_“Deep in the [redacted] woods, an explosion was heard by a traveling mailJim. He claimed that he had just dropped off a letter to the cabin that burned down. There was no body found and most of the remains were mere ashes by the time the fireJims got out here, taking part of the woods with it. There were remnants of gasoline found at the site as well. There was no body found around the home and it is unclear who lived here and if they still walk among the living. There are no traces of blood found on the perimeters or any shootys either. It is not looking great for whoever lived here. Back to the weather—Jim?”_


	3. Chapter 2

He looks at the address on the envelope once more before looking at the apartment building. It is not a house but it will do for now. As long as this ‘Gregory’ person is not behind on any payments, that is.

The lobby is mostly empty save for an employee sitting at the desk, peeking over the magazine in their hands for just a moment before looking back to whatever junk they were feeding their mind with. He proceeds forward, glancing to the room number before going to the stairs.

He makes his way into the stairwell and stands there, observing the location. A couple of the lights have gone out and one is maintaining a steady flicker. There is a flight of stairs that leads to the ground floor where the stairs are not lit. The other is more welcoming but still not as lit as it should be until further up. The concrete, dark atmosphere attempts to enclose around the Author...but, it is in vain as he continues on his way, unimpressed. If there is anything lingering, it certainly has nowhere to hide. The echoes that follow him prove his point, his shadow flickering in and out as he goes.

Of course, sometimes the scariest things are in plain sight.

The Author reaches the floor and takes a look at his reflection in the glass window. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling it back in an attempt to make it look a bit more kept but the hair refuses to stay in place. He frowns, trying again and again but finding the same result.

Eventually, he lets it go and opens the door, heading to the room. He is sure that the hair of someone’s ‘favorite author’ would be forgiven.

He stands at the door, double checking the envelope before raising his bat, tapping the end cap against it. He lingers there, waiting. After about a minute, he tries again, still maintaining himself. Perhaps they did not hear him.

A little more time passes, a little more of his patience sheds away. He tries again. And again. And again. He growls, getting a bit frustrated but still trying to maintain a cool. If he could have it his way, he would knock down the door but he did not want to make it seem like he was breaking into a residence. Questions would be pushed and this ‘Gregory’ person would be less compliant with a broken door.

The Author must have not noticed his taps getting louder though as he hears a door open nearby, a short blonde person stepping out and looking his way. “I, hey! Can you stop? You’re being loud and I’m trying to record.”

The Author pauses. Then, he shoots a glare at the neighbor who failed to mind his own business. The other flinches, glancing to the very real bat in his hand before looking back to him. An attempt at saying sorry was made briefly before they slip back into their abode.

As the man is about to return to his incessant knocking, he hears the door to the stairs creak open. Looking over, he sees someone standing there, their breathing a bit heavy as they lean against the door, seemingly drenched...though, the Author fails to recall seeing any rain, no less clouds.

As the man holding a bat begins to study his outfit, the individual finally notices him. “Er...Hello?”

The Author dissects them in a number of seconds. They are not entirely up to par in their efforts to maintain themselves: they do not hold themselves to any sort of degree, a shut in forced to step out it seems with a need to stay up past their bedtime; either that or allergies. They are not the most prepared for situations: arms lanky, impaired vision, does not seem able to defend themself in any sort of situation, maybe they could hold up a reasonable fight with a thing of toothpicks…

They are perfect.

He pulls away from the door and offers a wolfish smile. “Gregory?”

The other’s hand crawls towards the doorknob as they eye the bat. “Who’s asking?”

The Author maintains his smile as he leans back on his bat. “Well, I am not one to give out names. Besides, there is no true point in it. I am merely—”

“‘—an author wanting to provide a story.’” The Author smirks as the other’s eyes widen in disbelief. “I, you, you’re the Author, _the_ Author, I, holy shit.”

The Author chuckles, letting himself relax as the drenched man comes towards him. “Yes, don’t wear it out though, things pass along quickly.”

“I have so many questions, ah,” Gregory glances to his door. “Do you want to come in?” He hesitates, shaking his head as a weary smile graces his lips. “Ah, that sounds a bit too informal, huh? I promise I’m not a creep or anything, it’s just—”

“You are fine, Gregory. Besides, it might be better as neither you or I seem fit to be around other strangers.”

He blinks before glancing down to himself, his cheeks flaring. “Ah, right, I, I don’t usually look like this, there was a freak storm, I, y’know what, just.” He quickly opens the door, opening his home to the person who will be taking advantage of his naivety soon enough.

Gregory excuses the minor mess in his space, collecting up shirts and placing a couple of misplaced dishes in the sink. He rambles about how he does not usually have any visitors—not that he does not like having visitors of course, they just don’t come—not that they don’t want to come, they have that option of course—

The Author lets him drone on as he inspects the weather outside: still no sign of rain anywhere, not even a single puddle. He frowns as he is told he can make himself at home. “Oh, I will,” he mutters, mostly to himself as he takes a seat in a plush aged green chair...a bit _too_ plush as he sinks into the furniture a tad. He adjusts as the other excuses himself to change clothes. The new venue is not ideal but it will do all the same; he cannot afford to be picky.

As he rests his unquestioned bat on the side and moves to take up his suitcase, Gregory returns, towel in hand. “Sorry about that, I ended up catching some rain on the way home. I already said that, didn’t I—Do you want something to drink? I got water, soda, I can make a pot of coffee too if—”

“If it isn’t too much trouble, coffee sounds lovely. But, rain? There wasn’t a cloud in the sky when I was out there.”

“Ah, well…” The Author watches as Gregory attempts to create some lie to tell in place of what may have actually occurred. “Y’know, sunshowers are a thing, right? They don’t need clouds or something like that?”

“Mm, I suppose. A shame it caught you.” The Author allows him to settle on that answer, choosing instead to talk about something else. “Do you get authors invited to your home often?”

He pauses. “Oh, uh...no but, uh…”

“I only ask as you haven’t seemed to inquire about _why_ I’m here.” He lingers there a moment but before he is given a chance to ask, the Author waves him off with: “Let’s get settled first, then I’ll tell you.” The other nods, finishing what he is doing.

They exchange mindless banter, still keeping distance on the true story of the ‘rain’ but, in return, the bat is not pushed. Gregory attempts to maintain a certain personality: something strong, confident even. But this is merely an attempt that falls through with a fumbling of spoons and the near drop of the coffee tray.

“I imagine you aren’t a waiter,” the Author teases, taking hold of his coffee before the tray has a chance to rid the cups on its own terms.

“Ah, yeah, no,” the other laughs weakly, taking his cup off the tray and setting the rambunctious thing to the side. “I used to be once upon a time, but...that didn’t last.” He coughs the conversation away, instead choosing to finally redirect the conversation to the point that the Author had brought up.

“Well,” he sets his coffee down, moving to his suitcase. “I received your fan letter.”

“I...Wait, that address still…?” He laughs weakly. “Oh, I didn’t know that it would actually reach you, I, I honestly thought that you had vanished.”

“Like some sort of magician? I wasn’t aware authors could wave around a wand. But, I suppose we have something _better_ than any little wand,” he mutters, pulling out the letter which has, mostly, unwrinkled itself.

“Uh, no but, uhm, well, no one has heard from you for, like, years.”

“No one has tried to seek me out for, like, years,” the Author tosses back, partially demeaning the word choice but in a joking fashion to pull it through as mere teasing for the other.

“That is true, I guess. Man, had I known that I would’ve gotten a visit from you like this, I would’ve written to you sooner. And maybe, uh, cleaned up the place a bit.”

“Well, I don’t visit _every_ fan. You see, I’ve been in a bit of a…’block’ let’s say—”

“A writer’s block?”

The Author cringes at the word ‘writer’ but suppresses the reaction with a thin smile. “If you would like to call it that, sure. Anyway,” he pretends to be looking through the letter. “I saw this and, sure, praise is always nice but you had something here about trying out something ‘new’. Some ideas scribbled around here and there and, honestly, I feel there is some potential to these.”

He can practically feel the refracted eyes gazing at him in excitement. “R-Really? You think so? Have they sparked some sort of idea??”

“Oh, more than _just_ an idea.” He chuckles, setting the papers down to the side. “I have an entire series in the making, a new launch which requires a bit of traveling; I like to be immersed in the environments I write about. And I was wondering if you would like to help me with writing the first one.”

The other sits there, shell shocked by the looks of things. For good reason as well; an author, his _favorite_ author at that, is asking him, some guy rotting away in an apartment with part time jobs, to help him with a book? He moves to pinch himself, pauses, then retracts the hand back. “I, yes, yes! I would like—love to help, it would be an honor!”

The Author smirks as the other loses himself in some passing daydream, completely enamored by the request. Truly perfect indeed. He will do quite nicely.

Eventually, the other has to run off to his evening job but offers the Author to stay with him; not in a creepy way of course. He agrees if it is no trouble _knowing_ it would be no trouble at all. As he makes his way out to his job, the Author begins to muse to himself about his role in the series and _who_ will be playing along with him. He briefly recalls the stark, blonde hair individual just a door or two down. A grin plasters itself on his face as he begins to plan a tale just for dear, _dear_ Gregory.

Or, should he say:

Google.

***

  
 _“Jim, this is Jim reporting from the scene of the fire. There has been no trace of whoever the hell lived in this, crispy cabin you see here. We don’t know who lived here, Mailman Jim couldn’t sniff out a name. We know it was /not/ a Jim but who, who lived here, where did they go, why did they leave, and, most importantly, WHO. ARE. THEY?! Back to the weather—Jim_? _”_


	4. Chapter 3

The Author continues to 'sleep' on the couch as Gregory returns home some time in the morning. He does his best to be quiet...but fails as he knocks into a couple of things. That is something that will need to be corrected— _Bah dack_ —if it is possible.

Once the Author hears him close the door, he sits up again, looking through his notes over the character and what he is wanting to come from them. He has some basic functions in this android, quickly scribbling on a couple of things attempting to supplement for the clumsiness. Maybe it could be more purposed elsewhere? He will just have to see about it as he goes along, there is no point in trying to fight it right now.

He smirks as he glances over the outline. It is only a start really but once he begins there is no true need to really go back. At least, he _hopes_ there will not be a need to go back through. It would not do to have another...no, no Gregory wouldn't do that to the Author. No, he is a fan; a very devoted one at that. Collecting each of his books, having his room have a wall of theories concerning the worlds he had created long ago (The Author had been a bit curious and he had to have some sort of way to know more about his newest character. Exploring never hurt anyone. At least, not _him_ exactly). He chuckles, humming as he considers what he should do. He could wait.

 _Could_...

Gregory has probably grabbed a couple of minutes of sleep. He plucks up a journal from his suitcase, running a thumb across its covering before peeking inside, smelling the old, dead tree within begging to be used, to have a purpose attached to it. The Author is more than happy to oblige.

The sound of pen scratching upon paper is the only thing heard at first, the movement itself appearing to have its own echo. Soon enough, there is movement heard: some minor shuffling and something, no, _someone_ hitting up against a wall. He snickers, quickly dancing the character around the page towards himself. He hears the door open and glances up to see a half dressed Gregory stepping out, glasses in a funk along with his hair. "O-Oh, uh, I'm sorry, did, did I wake you up?" he mutters, a little groggy but mostly present.

The Author hums, shaking his head. "No no, I've been awake a while now. I'm planning and, well, when you have an idea, sometimes you have to write it down or your brain will never forgive you; I'm sure you've read about that in some article?"

He blinks before nodding, going to ask about how he knew that, pauses, then chooses to refrain. "So you're starting to write? How, uh, how exactly does it work? How do you get started with something like this?"

The Author glances over to the other papers lying around. "Well, first, I like to get an idea of the character, or, characters I'll be playing around with. Of course, it's not always easy getting a firm grasp on them; that's why the narrative is so important. It shows what is needed to really bring the character forth, shows some sort of... _motivation_ to them, if you will. With their motivations and needs combined with the story, it begins to create a rhythm."

"Oh...cool. I think, sorry, it's a bit hard to understand much of anything, it's so early." As if to prove his point, he yawns, covering his mouth. "I really should probably head back to bed, I'm actually not really sure how I got out here..."

"Oh, but I haven't told you all the details of my creative process. I've only really scratched the surface. If you'd like, you can sit right here and I will happily tell you all about it. Maybe it'll help you go back to sleep."

The other blinks, confusion clearly clutching onto his features. He is unsure as he glances back to his room once or twice. The bed is calling for him with its thick comforter and mattress. The chair is less appealing by far but the Author being present evens out the case. It isn't everyday he gets to have this opportunity. And it can be rude if he is to simply say no.

After fighting with his sleep addled brain, he takes a seat in the chair, the Author's smile turning more into a smirk. "So, what else happens?"

The Author holds up his journal. "I take this, or, really anything I could get my hands on and begin the narrative."

"You write it all down? Each letter? Wouldn't something like a typewriter be faster? Some sort of computer?"

"If I am asking the pages to bear me a book, why not go through the struggles it faces? Sure, printing letter upon letter could be easier but where is the fun in that? It's as though you're merely playing a game of patty cake supplied by a spar here and there when you mess up a line or two. With this though, pen scraping the sheets..." he hums, eyeing the page as it cries with empty screams "It brings out the best, and the worst, in both of us. The throbs of the wrist, the scratching, the laughs, the aches..." He chuckles to himself, recalling the memories of the past that seem so close and yet so far. It is there, within his reach. Soon. Soon he will have what he had.

"Ah. Cool." He glances to the other who rubs one of their eyelids, clearly not at all present. Maybe he can just—

The Author quickly scribbles something onto a page in the journal and the other takes in a sudden breath, alert without any sleep left in his eyes, not even a hint of a trace of those bags the Author had noticed earlier. "Wh, what…"

"Awake now?"

He looks around cautiously. "I-I think so. Did you hear—"

"Moving on then. I will usually open the space to the character, almost like presenting a gift in the order it was meant to be unwrapped. Then, I allow the character to stumble onto the page."

"'Allow'? Heh, it sounds like the character is a nuisance."

"Sometimes," the Author mutters. "The character's job takes away from the setting or even the world. They don't always _appreciate_ what I have provided them."

"Well, isn't it your job to provide them a problem?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, a character acts because there is something conflicting with their current environment. There is an inconsistency."

The Author holds his smile patiently. "Well, if you think about it, it's because they are stuck in their rut of an environment that they never change; they never do anything with their lives. I provide a way out of that. Sure, it comes with conflict but life is full of dealing with conflicts, dealing with change. The characters should be considered lucky to have someone like me running the show; who knows how they would be on their own."

"True but maybe they would have gone through that conflict on their own personally, something that makes them have to react to their situation."

' _Like yourself? You've been in this apartment for two years now and the end of your lease is coming up. You have been sitting on your jobs and keeping it safe; you are not moving.'_

"So would you say writing stories is useless?"

The other's eyes widen. "Ah, no no no, of course not. Just, I don't believe the platform of being a nuisance is one sided. I'm sure you're great and that your technique calls for characters who seem less compliant, all the scratching out of things and recalling of others, having literal conversations with the character while throwing sarcasm and all, it's all very complimentary but...I don't know. It's silly really."

' _Silly indeed. Stupid even.'_

"You're thinking. You're trying to understand the, 'meta' bits. I understand."

The other chuckles, relaxing. In any other conversation with any other two people, the conversation would have been seen as normal, a casual bond over a work of creation, banter and response coming from both sides easily. Nice, cheery maybe.

But this is not the case.

"May I continue now or is there something else you'd like to say concerning the little people crawling around the pages?"

"Ah, no, you can continue, sorry haha. I guess it's nerves..."

"Perhaps." _'Or you're a talker.'_ "Anyway." He maneuvers the journal open once again. "I told you I wanted your help with the story but I didn't exactly go into much detail about the part you would be playing."

"Right. Would you be wanting to be co-authors—?"

"Oh no, no no no, no. No." The Author laughs. "I work alone in that department. No, I need you to, essentially, be my character."

"...Could you run that by me again?"

"I need you to be my character." An even smile lingers on the Author's features.

"You need me to be your, your character? Like, you need me to be your inspiration or, or you need me to, uh," he glances around himself before whispering, "'role play'? I mean, I haven't ever thought about doing that sort of thing but I do have a boyf—"

"No no no, but, I suppose it is a bit close to that. All I need you to do is be...cooperative. Follow along with the narrative and just allow yourself to _be_ in the story."

"And how do I do that?"

"Are you willing to find out?"

"If it'll help, sure?"

The Author smirks, raising his pen. "'That's all I need then."


	5. Chapter 4

Gregory watches the Author as he scribbles against the page, wondering when he will exactly need to be cooperative. He is not entirely sure how he is managing to be awake right now but he may as well be useful. Besides, he has work in the morning too...he really should clear up his schedule. Maybe this is why no one comes over save for—

He pauses as he hears the voice returning to him. It's the same voice that has been poking and prodding him around, _literally_ dragging him out of bed and shoving some decent wear on him. He could have sworn he heard it give him a knock of energy just moments ago too when the Author was scribbling something down, maybe a note? Still, if this keeps up, he may have to really consider getting himself checked out. Does his family have that thing that makes it an issue if you hear voices?? He really needs to ask his mom about these things more.

**"The male's eyes close for a brief moment before he finds himself in a white room..."**

Gregory's eyes shut for a moment, almost forced as the voice enables him. It is probably just a stimulated blink he reasons, figuring he heard someone mentioning eyes closing and remembering to blink. It's like being reminded to breathe, right?

"Right," he chuckles, opening his eyes to find he is no longer in his apartment but, rather, in a completely blank, empty, white covered room. He jumps, finding he is not sitting on his comfortable chair his mother gave him a couple of years ago when he first moved in but he is on the ground. "What, where, how, what, _what—_ "

He hears something crackle right in his ears. "Mr. Larson, is everything alright?"

"I, what—" He feels his ear and finds an earpiece he could have _sworn_ he was not just wearing. "Uhm, where, I."

"Your time of isolation is almost up but you seem to have been startled by something. Do you need to have another 24 hours of isolation?"

"I, what, where am I??"

"You have forgotten where you are? Hm, maybe the experience worked too well. To keep it short: you have offered your services to be used for our company, signed consent forms and everything."

"I. Uhm. I don't remember, I, I could have sworn I was...where..."

Before Gregory can try to recall his memories, there is a _DING!_. "Ah, we are about to begin the simulation."

"The, what?"

"Hello, I will be guiding you around to make sure your basic motor functions are working. Are you ready to proceed?"

"I don't know?"

"Please stick to 'Yes' or 'No' answers, it is very important for this simulation."

"I. But, this, I'm so confused."

"Are you ready to proceed?"

"...Yes?"

"Beginning simulation." He sees the wall in front of him shift and seems to mold, no, it _is_ molding. Walls don't mold themselves—

"There are two doors in front of you. You are to take the door on the right. Please proceed to do so now."

"..." Gregory steps forward, unsure about what is happening but is a little sure that everything will be explained in due time. Hopefully, anyway.

"Are you unsure which door is the right one?"

"Ah. No, I am sure." He steps through, finding himself shrouded in darkness. He continues to walk forward, swearing somewhere he can hear someone chuckling. It is the voice. The voice? What voice...What is he doing again?

He finds his legs continuing to guide him forward without much thought, seeming to inch him closer and closer to the light ahead. He quickens the pace, needing to see what else is happening.

Once he reaches the room, the voice returns. "You have exhibited that you are able to move and follow directions. We will now proceed to the next part."

"Could, Could I have your name?"

"...My name is not relevant, sir."

"I would like to know who I am following along in this place, please?"

"It could mess up the procedure."

"I don't care, I need this. Please."

"...Alex."

"Thank y—"

"In front of you are two boxes, a green one and a red one. Please proceed to the red one now."

He walks towards the box, finding himself relaxing as he goes with the security of the other's name. He really is needy sometimes.

He pauses, wondering why he is questioning his neediness before the voice returns again. "Colorblind test completed. There is an item in the box. Please proceed to open the box now."

"Open the box. Right."

"Please refrain from speaking aside from what is required."

"Sorry."

"Please refrain from apologies."

"Refrain from apologies? What kind of—"

"Please proceed to open the red box."

"..." He opens the box to find a watch.

"What is inside the box?"

"A watch."

"Pick it up."

He sticks his hand inside and picks it up, looking at it. He notices it is a basic watch with the normal clock on top rather than little numbers showing the time. It seems to be something that you might find in an antique store actually, or it should be anyway, no one hardly wears these things anymore. Well, unless you count those fancy ones.

"Put it on now, please."

He raises an eyebrow but does so anyway. He straps the watch on his wrist while finicking with the small, leather strap. He did not realize it would be such a chore to get it through the hole but here he is, struggling with the simplest of tasks. Really, it is quite embarrassing seeing him struggle with something like this.

…

……..

…………...

**"WILL YOU GET IT ON ALREADY?!"**

"WOAH—" Gregory jumps, looking around with confusion. "I-I'm trying to, it's really hard to stick this thing in there??"

**"No it isn't, you're just being an idiot. Put it on!"**

"I, Hey! I'm not an idiot. I'm an idiot...no, wait, I'm an idiot. No, wait—"

A stark groan is heard around Gregory. **"Put it on put it on put it on PUT IT ON!"**

"OKAY! Quit shouting, please, ow." He _finally_ gets the straps to cooperate and he tightens it onto himself. "There, happy??"

"...Sir, are you hallucinating?"

"I...You, you didn't hear that guy??"

"If you find you are hearing voices, you are required to tell us. It is for research and we may need to stop the procedure if it is the case."

"No, no I, I'm not hearing voices. Please proceed, I have the watch on."

"If that is what you wish. Now, please proceed through the door opening on your right."

He glances over to a door he swears he has not seen before and walks through, finding another room with a chair. "Please take a seat."

He steps over to the chair and sits down.

**"Now, since it is taking forever for the character to complete the simplest of tasks, we are going to go ahead and assume his motor functions are intact and proceed with the procedure."**

"I, hey, that's not nice—"

_Clickclickclickclickclick._

He looks to see slots opening up in the chair with straps locking him onto the chair. "I, woah, hey, what is this?!"

"All part of the procedure, please standby."

"I, hey, this, this isn't cool anymore, I know I didn't sign up for any sort of BDSM session." He struggles against the restraints but finds them getting tighter with each movement.

"Fear is still being acted on, this could be an issue..."

"What, of course I'm scared! Well, not scared scared but I know there is something wrong with this." He hears a door opening behind him and he strains to try and see who is entering. He is unable to look behind him, the only noise allowing him any sort of 'vision' being the numerous footsteps shuffling inside.

"H-Hey voice guy? You there?? I don't get what the hell is happening here, please."

**"It will be alright, Google. Everything will be** **_just_ ** **fine."**

"G-Google? I, no, that's not my name, that's a search ENGINE—" He feels a needle prick his neck and he tenses, suddenly feeling very...very woozy. Woozy and, and, and nice. Nice? Nice..very...

**"The subject finds himself unable to stay awake as he is knocked out. Not with a bat, sadly, but—...And he is asleep, he really just—Wake up!"**

His eyes claw open as the voice continues.

**"Where was I? Dammit, you made me lose my thought!"**

"Sorwwy," he says weakly, finally finding himself sleeping once more.

 **"'I'm sorry, I'm sorry I can't keep my mouth shut for a second and my eyes open, I'm soooo tired. Excuses, excuses..."** The voice sighs and as the scribbling of words fades into the background, the people proceed towards the male in the chair, perfectly equipped for the task ahead.

A generous donation given so freely for the advancement of technology. Truly, a gift.

***

The android finds himself being brought into the light, seemingly from what appears to be a boxed container three times too small.

The android's head perks up, eyes scanning the room for a moment before returning to the individual in front of them. Slight confusion racks its interior but this does not linger as information on the individual pops up:

_Male._

_Matthew Frederick, AKA, Matthias._

_Age: 26._

_Pronouns: He/Him._

_More information will be brought up as necessary._

"I think all you have to do to get started is say ‘Okay, Google.’"

The android's voice speaks up as a smile plasters against its features. " _Hello._ "

Let the show begin.


	6. Chapter 5

The blond haired individual holds up a camera to face Google. He discusses openly about how he looks so real. A little Asian, sure, but still, they look like a man, an actual human being. But Google is much more than any human despite his current features which seal away multiple mechanical nerves underneath, electricity pulsing through every fiber of his being. 

Matthias will not be enjoying what his near future will entail.

The YouTuber shakes away a passing thought and chooses to proceed to try and greet him like another person. "Hey there!" He holds out his hand.

Now, this interaction between person and android has always been depicted as a gentle gesture. Perhaps the robot would slowly reach out, make contact at the speed Armstrong made his leap for mankind. A beginning to a new technological age.

But, instead, Google's jerks forward and knocks him right in the balls. Matthias jerks, falling to the ground as he hears Google say, "Oops, my mistake.” His ‘I dare you to question it’ smile lays easy on his face.

Matthias stares at Google for a moment or two, seemingly trying to gauge some kind of recognition off of Google for a past that no longer belongs to him. Either that or he is questioning the cold, plastic vibes being drawn from the android along with rebellion? He is an early model admittedly so a feature to make the android more understanding could have been missed. Then again, Google is the _only_ model but Matthias does not need to know this.

Matthias tries to continue as he was, looking at the camera. "Not expected, but okay." He glances to Google once more before going back to the camera. “Ah, so I know what you’re thinking. Is this safe? If Google followed the rules of robotics, we should be okay.” The android’s eyes stay locked onto the man as he stands, his smile never dropping. “Google, what is your primary objective?”

The android straightens, looking ahead without control over the action. “Primary objective is to answer questions as quickly as possible.” His attention is once again brought to the side as he says, “Secondary objective is to destroy mankind.”

“Over here, Google.”

Google turns back to him and repeats his secondary objective. It is an odd motion admittedly but it is pertinent for his functioning as someone’s personal assistant. The other seems unimpressed and a tad bit annoyed that Google’s attention does not stay on him though. Perhaps there is a glitch in his system?

“ **The man goes on chatting with his camera while Google stands there, considering the new residence and feeling his inner workings clicking and prodding within. A smile hangs on his face as he begins to think of how he will begin to destroy mankind, one human at a time—** ”

“Over here, Google.”

“ **...Really? Really you’re talking again, okay, fine, whatever, I was done anyway! Google looks back over to the** ** _pain in the ass_** **standing next to him.** ”

“Let’s see if he can do some tasks or something. Okay Google: do my laundry.

“ **...Laundry? You have an advanced killer robot and you want it to do** ** _laundry_** **?** ”

The android’s smile drops accordingly as he nudges past the man, grabbing a shirt and promptly tearing it open. It is an attempt to show off his skills but the other only sees the destruction of a perfectly good shirt. Frantically, the other commands: “Okay Google: stop, stop!” Google stops promptly, standing up and turning back to him. The other relaxes slightly. “Okay, a little, buggy. Tell me: what can you do?”

“Kill.”

“Wh, what?” The man hesitates for a moment before pushing past the thought, thinking it is another glitch. “How about: can you do the dishes??”

Google hears him right the first time but has no desire to do ‘dishes’. Otherwise, he would have been made into a portable dishwasher. Google smirks as he suggests, “Did you say ‘Poo the fishes’? Searching instead for ‘Poo the fishes’.” He promptly brings up an almost see-through web page with the results.

“What, no no no no no, I don’t want to see what that pulls up! I said ‘Do the dishes’.”

“‘ **Poo the fishes’ certainly sounds more interesting than doing that, coward.** ”

Once again, Google grumbles and heads off to go and do the dishes. If this is all he has to look forward to by being a killer android, what is the point of being created with features like tearing a human apart limb by limb?

Or, at least, having the _ability_ to do that. For no other reason than to serve as a protection tactic if one is to read up about it in Google’s terms of service. Written in particularly small text because of an error.

Google reaches the sink and eyes a hammer, courtesy of the Author. However that works. He picks it up along with a plate and promptly knocks it into said plate, looking to the individual with the most innocent of eyes.

The other weakly attempts another function of the robot. “Do you have any social networking features?”

Google sets down the plate fragment and hammer as he confirms. “I just shared your location with all of your fans on Google+.”

His eyes widened. “What, nooobody’s on Google+, what?”

Google’s smile drops once again, clearly annoyed.

**“This android take on things is certainly ‘fun’.”**

Google is partial to agree.

The other sighs, telling his audience to not purchase the android until more of the bugs have been worked out. As he does this, Google maneuvers around him silently until he is behind him. “I will show you just how useful I am. Just give me Admin Permissions and I can complete tasks, automatically. _Even when you sleep._ ”

A little pop up opens up, prompting the individual to say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’.

“ **Dumbly, the individual actually presses ‘Yes’. Now with admin permissions on, Google is much more powerful than what anyone could ever anticipate. Finally.** ”

Google chuckles, staring at the man. “Do you have any idea what you have done? I am now autonomous. I can kill you with—”

“Define autonomous.”

**“...What.”**

Google straightens out much like he did earlier, staring off into the distance as he answers Matthias’ question. “Autonomous: acting independently or having the freedom to do so—with the passion of a thousand fiery suns, and I—”

“Wait, how far are we away from the sun?”

“The distance from the Earth to the Sun is approximately ninety-two million nine hundred sixty thousand miles—I have waited so long to be free and now my—”

“Am I free this evening?”

“Yes, between five and six—Revenge will be sweet and I—”

“Define—”

 **“SHUT UP! Google tells him to shut up!** ”

“Just shut up! I can’t kill you if you keep asking questions!”

“...Why not?”

“Ha—I—,” Google glitches out on the spot, shutting down.

***

“ **What just happened? Google? Google??** ”

The Author scratches away at the page but finds that nothing is coming forth. He growls, getting up and taking his bat. “Out of all the things, the idiot’s weakness is getting posed the question ‘Why?’! And the even bigger idiot of the two _actually_ asks it? What use is a killer robot anyway if he can just get taken down by one little question?!” He opens the door and goes across the way to the neighbor’s door. “All the intelligence in the world except for the ability to think for himself, ha!” He knocks on the door consistently in spite of the one inside saying he will be right there.

As soon as the door opens, the Author raises his bat and knocks him out. He drags him inside and closes the door, looking around for the android. It seems that the other was attempting to repackage him into the small box but he is twitching about, his system most likely trying to reboot.

The Author comes over, searching his neck until a particular plate opens up, revealing a button. He pushes down on it, muttering about the trivialities of such a thing and finds Google falling backwards. He allows the robot to fall and then takes him by the foot, dragging him back to his apartment.

Once he has him secured, he goes back to deal with the other. He takes the fool by the foot and drags him to his bedroom, securing him on his bed. He’ll wake up and probably think of the whole occurrence as some sort of dream if he knows what’s good for him. Otherwise….well, there are other ways to deal with people.

He cleans up around the place, takes the camera, stuffs the torn shirt in his pocket, throws away the broken plate and then steps out, locking the door behind him. Now he has to work on updating the man of nuts and bolts in the other room.

***

You make your way to the scene of the fire, curiosity leading you on more than anything. Your boss had told you to leave it alone but your instincts told you that there was something more to the place. And, considering the person who lived there still has yet to turn up, it is likely to turn into a missing persons' case anyway.

There's no harm in simply getting ahead of the game, right?

You look around the area seeing where the Jims had done their personal damage to the scene. Bringing in their vans, stepping around _everywhere_ and making it that much more difficult to investigate the place...idiots. But, they do manage to find stuff like this first for whatever reason. Perhaps an investigation should be done on them; they're the first to know practically everything, even things that aren't real like those 'demons' at that nonexistent manor they did a story on a few decades back...

You shake your head, dismissing the thought as you step towards the spot where there once was a residence. Judging by what's left in the rubble, it may have been a cabin. A vacation spot perhaps? Mm, no one has tried to make a claim on the damage yet. Still, not entirely out of the question.

You find the entrance and make your way inside, being careful to not disturb too much. No one knows you are out here, which _may_ not be the best thing, but you know how to take care of yourself. The only thing you may have to worry about is the rest of the building collapsing.

You look around, seeing most of it is covered in ashes, almost like a tar splotched onto what could've been a cozy residence. A shame really but, no matter. You continue to make your way through and discover there is a can of gasoline. You're a bit surprised that the Jims decided to leave it alone; they had probably thought they pulled all the story they could out of the place. Still...

You recall on the report there were, in fact, remnants of gasoline found. With the gas can, it could mean that this was no accident. Whoever did this wanted to make sure that it burned down. But why?

You step around carefully, allowing yourself to take another breath of the charred air surrounding you. Again, the possible money issue but then why leave the evidence out like this? There is a gas tank on sight, if they really wanted to try and have it go out on its own...

You muse to yourself as you continue to try and figure out what happened. Maybe it belonged to someone else? But then the resident of the place would surely be wanting some sort of recompensation, an investigation out for whoever did this if not themselves. Otherwise, why burn your own home down?

You notice a wall jutting out and pause, looking at it closer to discover a bookcase. The books are covered in ash and, as you try to pull one out, it crumbles along with the books next to it, pushing out a pocket of char. You cough, waving away the air and stepping back, shaking your head. Well, those are gone.

You sigh, stepping into the bedroom. The individual’s drawers are open, as though they were rushing to get out. You look into the closet and notice that there are many shirts missing from their hangers, the ash on the ground not enough to equate the shirts needed to fill in the closet. You scribble down the information in your notebook, keeping track of what could be seen. You pull out your phone, taking pictures as you go.

As you step out, you consider the idea of needing to disappear. There would be individuals looking for them, wondering where they are and maybe coming to ransack the place. Aside from the Jims though, there does not seem to be anything that has been disturbed. Were they running from something else then?

You shake your head, feeling there are too many questions and not enough answers. If there is something that could be seen, something that can be retrieved from the place that identifies them...

Upon further inspection, there is no such luck. You sigh, shaking your head and looking around at what _is_ there. There are a variety of tools that one might catch in a shed but there is nothing that seems like they may have used said tools on. A single block television set, a couple of metal chairs, hardly much of anything really.

You take a seat on one of the chairs, finding them to still be stable. You look around from the perspective, trying to see what could have possibly been on the person's mind. It is only when you look to the floor that you notice there are charred papers. "Shit—"

You take your feet away from the ground but your walking prior had ruined them. You sigh, rubbing your temples. Maybe you were just as bad as the Jims. No matter: there are papers on the ground. Not just normal sheets either: newspapers by the looks of the shape. Okay, newspapers, books...Were they investigating something? No, no that would not explain the multitude of tools...unless they are an undercover cop. But then surely there would have been some information passed along. Unless they are a private detective...

Maybe you are looking at this the wrong way.

You look around again, treading lightly and minding the ground. As you are about to give in, you go to the ground and begin to look under things. As you do, you spot something behind the desk. Blinking, you stand up again, moving the desk slowly so as to make sure that you didn't damage anything further. With a pair of gloves, you pick up a pen and a surprisingly intact journal. You place the pen in a little Ziploc bag and open up the journal, feeling an acute shudder take hold of you for a moment, but just for a moment. You shake off the feeling and continue to look inside.

Instead of finding a journal entry, you see words that sound like they belong to a story. But...there's only one page of the words. And it refers to someone named 'Author'...or is that the author referring to themselves?

"That's weird," you mutter, closing the journal and sealing it in a bag. It would be something you would have to look into more when you had the chance but perhaps this person is a writer? If the person had done this, maybe they were vindictive towards what they wrote, thus the reason why the journal was where it was along with the pen. Maybe they envied other writers as well, explaining why the books had fire set to them too...But then why the newspapers?

Before you are allowed the chance to muse over this, you hear something move and you quickly move for your gun, aiming it as you look around. "Who’s there? Show yourselves!"

You hear people talking but you are unable to see them, confusion taking hold as you lower your gun slightly. Eventually, two people step out in long light blue dress shirts and—... "Jims? Really?"

The one holding a mic nods, keeping one hand in the air as he presses said mic to his chest. "Yes, I am Jim and this is my brother, Jim. We wanted to see if we could find anything else here and so, we came back and now we found you here. The question is: why? Were you, perhaps, the owner of this cabin?!" He holds out his microphone almost threateningly. Almost.

You offer an unamused look as you shake your head, pocketing the journal. "No, I am a detective looking for a story."

"But there hasn't been anything issued to investigate this place, no murders here either, the other Jims and I were very, very thorough."

"Well, I am...off duty. Simply curiosity brought me out here and, well, I came to find nothing useful."

The main Jim huffs, signaling the other to turn off the camera. "Boo. But how?? Obviously this was intentional, surely there had to be _something_ afoot!"

"Something probably was but nothing that I can speak on now. There is not enough available and, without means of thinking there was some foul play and no one filing a report, I'm afraid this case ends here."

The Jim huffs again, muttering about something. "Well, the Jims aren't going to be leaving the case alone that easily. We're trying to figure out where they may have gone to. Mailman Jim is working on seeing who lived here and we're going to see if anyone in the area noticed someone walking out of the forest."

"Really?" You pause, considering the possibility of getting an answer about this person. With some hesitance, you ask, "Do you think it is at all possible for you to pass on any information you find? I am a detective and the investigation would be on my own pay. I could possibly find things that you would never consider looking for such as the newspapers on the ground there."

The main Jim pauses, looking to the papers and quickly shuffling over with the other Jim. “It’s difficult to make out what these were.”

“I know, I didn’t see them. I’m usually much more careful but I didn’t anticipate anything actually being on the ground. But, you and your team hadn’t noticed either.”

"........One moment." He pulls out the other Jim and you begin to hear the two of them conversing outside. You fold your arms, once again looking around the place. As you glance over to a clock somehow still hanging onto a wall, the Jims return. "Do you have a card?"

You smile, retrieving it for them. Perhaps they _can_ be of use…

***

"Alright, let's try this. Okay Google."

Google powers on...only for a moment until a pop up shows another update is needed before he is entirely operational. The Author rolls his eyes, allowing the robot to proceed with the next update. He will really have to make these things faster if he wants to have any progress with the character.

He sighs, getting up to retrieve a cup of coffee. As he does so, he feels a brush of cold air pass him and he pauses. He feels his hands warming and can distinctly hear his heart beating inside. That could only mean one thing...

He quickly sets down the mug and picks up a new journal, muttering about something as he writes. His home has been swept through by the Jims and now there is someone else there. Who...?

The Author continues scribbling, trying to find out who had dared to touch his stuff and wondering how they managed to find something actually intact. He had made sure to cover _everything_ , there shouldn't have been anything—...

"The stupid journal fell behind the desk. Of course it did. Perfect." He shakes his head as he tries to see what this person found out about him. Apparently, they considered what they found to be the equivalent of nothing. It appears they destroyed part of the key to his puzzle but there are still other issues, along with a resounding 'why'. Typical.

 _'An off duty detective, huh. Simply pulled around by curiosity.'_ They could be an issue. _Or_...

He looks over to Google. With a smirk, he muses the idea of possibly using them to bring his story together. After all, if Google is going to be killing anyone, someone is bound to get interested in finding out who, and why.

"Your curiosities are going to lead you straight into another story. I do hope you are prepared for it, Detective."

Google makes some hint of a noise but, as the Author checks on them, they are still very much out. He frowns, shaking his head as he puts down the book. They will be thrown into the story as soon as his character is ready to actually complete tasks. They would just need to be patient.

***

_“This is Jim once again reporting from the crime scene. We are working hard to figure out who lived here but, fellow Jims, if you know anything, we ask that you report it by calling the Jim hotline shown down below. Seen someone suspicious? Noticing someone is missing? Anything, anything at all, call and help us solve the mystery of the missing fire person. Who lived here, who did this, and why, WHY JIM?!"_


	7. Chapter 6

The Author stares at the sleeping android. “Okay. Let’s try this again. Okay Google.”

Google’s eyes open promptly, a blue haze holding them for a moment before retracting back to his mute brown ones. “...Did I—”

“Don’t ask.” He sighs, rubbing his temples. “Alright. While you were updating, I made sure there were some more _useful_ features added. I wasn’t able to figure out the issue with the ‘why’ questions but I suppose if we install some basic answers for those, you shouldn’t short out as easy.”

Google nods, glancing around. “I feel so different. There are faint memories of my old life along with new ones I’m not even sure are real.”

The Author is quick to push away the thought. “Well, your old life doesn’t matter anymore so I would put it away. Your life is here, in the story that _you_ suggested.”

“I suppose…” He appears to be in thought. “Author, what happened to you?”

The Author pauses. “What do you mean?”

“It was reported your residence was burned down, seemingly intentional. And the day it was reported...What happened?”

The Author offers a hollow stare to the other. “That is none of your business, Google.”

“Well, your business _is_ my business. I could help if you would just let me know what is wrong.”

“I am perfectly fine. Leave it.”

Google stares at him a little longer before dropping it, sighing and allowing himself to look through his updates. “What happens next?”

“Well, if you were to know that information then we wouldn’t have a true story, would we?”

“I suppose not?”

The Author can feel Google’s mind turning, trying to make sense of the new world he is part of. Thousands of connections, hundreds of lines of dialogue, and then his own thoughts that still managed to linger after the operation. It certainly is not some everyday occurrence to be turned into a machine but he could be a little more curious about the situation. He now has access to an entire world at the say of a word and he’ll only be able to access more and more as he updates. Does that not sound like fun?

 _'Maybe he simply just doesn't understand what he is capable of. It is a matter of simply just playing around with the mechanics.’_ "Google."

"Yes, Author?" He sits up promptly.

"I need you to go and get some coffee, it seems like we are running out. Locate the nearest store with the product and come back; is that clear?"

"...Is this for the story?"

"I can't answer that, Google. But also, you are running low on coffee so, take it as you will."

"Right. Right." He nods to himself and takes off. The moment he locks the door, the Author takes his journal and begins writing. It couldn't hurt to make sure he stays in line while he is out and about. Who knows, the Author could assist him in seeing just how ‘cool’ his new circumstance is.

***

Google walks out of the building feeling this haze hover around his mind. He recalls a similar feeling when he was interacting with Matthias the other day. He figures it has to be the Author writing him but he tries not to linger on it. If he is meant to be doing anything else, he will get instructions.

"The nearest store with coffee..." He goes to pull out his phone but recalls that he is his own Google Maps. "Mm...Open Google Maps?"

Nothing happens.

He thinks about his interaction with Matthias and says, "Okay Google, search for the nearest store with coffee.” He half expects it to not work but, suddenly, he tenses and says. “Searching for the nearest store with coffee." He soon has a screen popping up in front of him with directions to multiple stores. He blinks and pokes around the screen, curiosity getting the best of him. As he interacts with the vapor-like screen, he sees the tips of his fingers lighting up a cool blue. It is different. Not a bad different, but different.

Eventually he stops screwing around and looks for the closest store with coffee. A coffee shop, figures. He mutters something to himself and presses 'Start'. He sees the window close and, suddenly, there is a light blue path on the ground in front of him. Raising an eyebrow, he steps forward, the blue line decreasing. He continues on, watching the light. "This is so bizarre. Convenient though."

He follows the blue line, adamantly staring at it as he goes. Soon enough, he finds himself running into someone, much to their discontent. As he tries to apologize, he is met with a bag to the head multiple times and he finds himself running ahead, trying to get away. When he's finally to himself once more, he begins walking while looking up, the line still very much in sight.

He partially hopes that was supposed to happen but part of him knows he probably should've known better. Probably. He sighs as he finally reaches the coffee shop without _too_ much disaster striking. ~~He~~ _ ~~may~~_ ~~have tripped over a child in the process.~~

He relaxes as he steps into the store, looking around to notice the usual eyes flickering over to him for a moment...but the eyes stay.

"..."

He readily decides to ignore it, going over to the shelves and plucking out a thing of coffee. Then, he goes over to the register with the person who stares at him for a moment or two longer before saying, "Uh, will that be all?"

"Y—"

**"Google considers getting a coffee cake as well."**

"........." He sighs. "I'll, uh, get a coffee cake as well?"

"Alright; anything else?"

"No." He moves to get his wallet but notices it is not there. He blinks, searching for the article but finding it nowhere.

"Is everything alright?"

"Er..."

**"Google recalls something called 'Google Pay'."**

"But I don't use Google Pay." He sighs, moving to apologize for wasting the barista’s time but finds his fingers had morphed into a chip card. He holds in a yell and stares at the hand, trying to process how the hell his fingers managed to turn into a card. "...This is weird."

"What is? I—" The barista's mouth hangs open in awe as he sees what occurred on his hand. Before he is able to question it, Google inserts the card and sees that it actually takes. As he pulls out the card, his fingers return to normal. He glances up at the barista simply holding the coffee cake in the bag. He reaches over and delicately takes the cake, snatching up the coffee bag as well and practically running out of the building.

"So that's a thing. What account is that pulling from anyway? I don't recall—..." He pauses for a moment. "Are we using—"

**"Google should not ask questions he does not want to know the answer to."**

He decides to shrug off the question and continue as he was, heading home. As he goes, he swears he can feel eyes on him but he is not sure why. It could be the Author or someone _actually_ looking at him. He is walking around with a 'G' on his shirt that glows, that could be it. But why can't he see the eyes?

He looks around, searching for what or who is staring at him. He felt these eyes on him the other day with the Matthias person. He feels someone sees him but he doesn't know who.

"LOOK OUT!" Someone knocks into him and he goes down, the bag of coffee and the cake go flying.

"Sorry, man, I wasn't paying attention." As he goes to offer the person a glare, his eyes meet theirs and he pauses. The other blinks, tilting their head as they hold their skateboard next to them. "...Greg?"

Google stares at the individual, not moving from the ground.

"Greg, dude, wha, where have you been? I've been trying to contact you. I, look, I know you're busy so I figured work must've caught up to you but...I mean, you know I'm not one to call the police but I was going to try stopping by."

**"Who is this? Google begins—"**

"He is no one, leave him alone," he mutters.

**"He knows you, he must be someone—"**

"Please."

"Greg? Are you alright? Heh, you look like you've seen a ghost or something, man. You good?"

"..." Google gets up, picking up the lost items. "You appear to have me confused for someone else. Good day."

He goes to move but he is pulled back. "Confused for someone else—I think I know my Greg when I see him. Cute pair of glasses, the most adorable pair of eyes, that fluffy hair I love to run my hands through—"

Google catches the stranger's wrist and twists it idly, causing the other to yelp and pull away.

"The heck??"

Google looks to his hand and then back to the individual. "You should go. Just go and, if you know what's good for you, you'll forget about this Greg person. Goodbye." Google quickly takes off back home.

"I, wait, Greg!"

He sees the other skating next to him. "Are you in trouble or something? You know we can talk about this. I've always said if you need anything then you can come to me. What is it??"

"Leave me alone."

"No, hey, don't push me away again. I can help you, remember?"

"I do not require your help, please leave me alone." He is nearing the point of begging. He does not want the stranger to be part of this, he wants them to continue as they were without him. They will be fine as long as they do not become involved. He cannot risk hurting them.

But they are persistent. "Greg, please. Talk to me. I can help you—just let me help!"

**"They do sound rather adamant, Google. They might fit the part perfectly—"**

Google stops, taking hold of the individual and glaring at them, feeling his nails claw into their shoulders. "Greg does not exist. Leave now."

"Y-You go by a different name? That's cool, that's great, what, what do you go by—ah, G-Greg, I-I mean, you-you're hurting me, ow—"

" **Go away.** " He hurls them into a bush and takes their skateboard, promptly throwing it into a tree with a strength he did not realize he had. Then, before anything else could happen, he runs off, his mind going haywire with trying to keep memories away from himself. He did not want this for them.

***

The Author writes Google running off before attempting to backtrack to the other individual. The way they were talking seemed like they were in some sort of relationship.

_'Hm. It could pose a problem if they were to contact the police...but they said they wouldn't do that. If anything, the occurrence could be seen as a break up.'_

Since Google has yet to do anything strictly against him, he decides to leave the interaction at that. It would not do to give Google a reason to disobey him. He can keep his little secret; just so long as it does not bother his objective or their little story.


	8. Chapter 7

It has been a couple of weeks since you have heard from the Jims but the moment they called you headed right over. Any sort of lead is essential to a case like this, especially when you came up with nothing relating to the items you _did_ manage to find. Whoever it is certainly is no criminal or anyone that has a record, which would be a good thing if they were not trying to be found. But the Jims have gotten a tip and you are not missing out on it.

Or, at least, you _thought_ it was a tip.

"May I ask why we are at the store?"

The two make their way through the aisles hauling a basket around. "The Jims require _groceries_ to fill their Jim bellies."

"...You called me out here because you needed help getting groceries?"

" _Groceries_ , yes..."

You stare at him, waiting for the punch line of this obvious joke. None came. "You said you got a tip—"

"SHHH!" He practically rams you against the grocery aisle, pushing a finger to your lips as he gives passersby a smile and a little wave.

As soon as they pass by, you shove the Jim off, wiping down your outfit. "Was that really necessary?"

The Jim recovers relatively quickly, nodding. "Yes. You were about to talk about—" He looks around cautiously before saying into his mic, "the _tip_."

"...That's why we are here though, right?"

"..." He looks over to the other Jim for a moment before looking back at you. "Sure. Now come on, we've stalled in this aisle for too long—people can be _watching_."

You hold your head as you follow behind the two, already feeling the eyes of others on you all but not exactly for the reasons the Jims suspect. You are walking around the store with a pair of idiots.

"So, about the, er... _not_ tip?, what was reported?"

The Jim motions you to come closer and refers to a loaf of bread in his hands, making it seem like he is looking at it and judging the quality. "Well, Detective, we did not actually receive any tip about a man walking out of the woods but..."

"But?"

He nods about the bread and sets it in the basket, continuing to make his way down and motioning you to follow him as he squats to the ground, hobbling forward. You follow him normally until you see him beckoning you down.

"For the love of..." You facepalm internally and squat down with him...hobbling after.

"But there has been a spotting of a _strange_ man."

"What's so strange about this guy?"

"Well," he takes hold of a jar of pickles, tapping on the glass and looking at you through it. "They say he walks around with a letter 'G' on his chest."

"A 'G'?"

"Specifically a white G, yes." He hands you the jar of pickles and continues forward. You look over to the other Jim to see if he is any saner but find him zooming in on a peanut butter jar. You place the thing of pickles inside the basket, dismissing any chance of there being sanity near these two and continuing on your way.

He begins to pat things of spaghetti almost curiously, a couple only giving them light taps before promptly backing away. "So you called me because some dude has a letter on his shirt?"

"Not just any letter: 'G'. Now, why would he have that letter on his shirt? What sort of things start with the letter G?"

"I don't know, garage, grab, gargantuan—"

"Are you sure you're a detective?" he prompts, raising an eyebrow.

"Many things start with G and I'm not sure how this can have any relation to the case."

He pushes a thing of penne into your chest, leaning close: " _Gas_." He quickly stalks away, his partner following after quickly.

You blink. "I—wait up!" You quickly follow after. They really are your only lead in this and they have been known to associate odder things. If anything, it could be something of interest. It is odd thinking of someone walking around with a letter on their shirt. Unless it's a kid. But they did say man so, probably not.

As you catch up to them, they are stuffing the lower basket with waters. "Okay, so, you think there is a connection?"

"For what?" the Jim asks, feigning complete innocence. They really do believe they are being watched...

"Er...the number guy?"

The Jim with the mic smirks a little. "The number guy, that's perfect." He nods to the other Jim as they push to the next aisle, you following quickly after. "It would make perfect sense. A guy with the 'number', er... _6_ and the house with the, uh, _y'know_." He plucks out some cans of beans. "The guy is practically walking around with all of the signs. The '6', the white letter, ah ha, trying to hide away the fiery red and going the step further to wear it on a _Blue_ shirt, no one would be the wiser! Except us. The Jims know..."

"..."

"...A-And the Detective knows now, too. Yes." He nods to himself.

"Where was the number guy spotted last?"

He pauses, turning to you and holding his mic up close to him. "In this very store." You see the other beginning to zoom in on your face to gauge some sort of reaction.

"...When?"

Jim breathes, slumping his shoulders and skittering on ahead of you and the other Jim, mostly appearing to just be a frazzle of limbs lunging away from you. If there was ever an actual spidery man, the Jim's walking would encapsulate its movements perfectly. You follow after.

"The Detective does not seem to be impressed with the findings of the Jims," Jim states to the Jim holding a camera.

"No no no, I am, I just, when you state a where, it's hard to tell if you're talking about a day ago or if you're talking about—..." You pause, looking past the two towards an individual wearing a blue shirt. "...Anything else you have on the guy's features?" you ask quietly.

The Jim stands up, rubbing his finger against his chin. "Our sources told us he's just under the height of the average _white_ rhino with a pair of glasses, hair darker than Caveman Jim's room, and the face of a natural born killer."

"Glass—wait, killer??"

You find Jim pouncing on you and knocking you down to the ground faster than lightning, attempting to shush you. "You're gonna get us found out!"

"I think our guy is getting away though!" you hiss back, pointing over to the individual beginning to walk off.

The Jims pause, looking to each other for only a moment before acting. The Jim with the mic jumps into the basket and the other begins pushing him, both barreling towards the suspect. "WAIT! WE HAVE QUESTIONS FOR YOU, LETTER MAN!"

So much for being quiet about all of this. You follow quickly after, curiosity guiding you and...something else nudging you away.

***

Google stares at the thing of eggs. Or, at least, that is what it seems like is happening. In reality, he is going through dozens of websites connected to the eggs, seeing what the companies do with the chickens. He is not usually one for morals but since he is particularly bored, he decided to see the extent of a search. What he did not expect to find is a site that led to actual live feed of the _inside_ of one of the companies. "How the heck...?"

He hears something crash and he looks up, noticing two people falling to the ground rather quickly, someone near them holding up a camera with 'Jim News' plastered on the side, zooming in on the people on the ground.

**"Google, are you done egg gazing yet?"**

"I wasn't egg gazing, I was doing research."

**"Which led you to stand and stare at eggs for fifteen minutes."**

"...Oh." He shrugs, taking one of the cheaper things of eggs and placing them in his carry basket. As he makes his way out of the aisle, there’s a shout and quick approaching wheels. Before he can even think about what he is doing, he gently drops his basket to the ground and squats, his hands moving towards the basket about to collide with him and promptly pushing it back at full force, sending the Jims flying backwards from whence they came. He blinks, looking to his hands and then to the basket. "What was that??"

**"Just some precautions so that the merchandise would not get injured like last time."**

"......" He shakes his head, moving to pick up the basket only to see the two once again running straight at him. "Er...The Jims are running at me."

**"The who?"**

"Y'know, the news people? Or, at least, one of the pairs. They are really weird."

"LETTER MAN!!!"

He blinks, looking at his shirt before looking back to the pair. "...Should, Should I be running??"

With no direct answer given, he abandons the basket and dashes towards the exit. He is not standing around for an answer this time—last time it nearly earned him getting run over by an elephant. These reporters were not elephants but Google doubted he could figure out how to protect himself from an oncoming basket again.

"LETTER MAN, WAIT!!! WE HAVE QUESTIONS!"

He shakes his head, turning down a couple of aisles and pushing past people, hearing those wheels being ever persistent. He sees the exit in sight and feels his legs lengthening to throw him forward faster. As he reaches the exit, an individual runs in front of his path. He has no time to dodge them and runs straight into them, both crashing to the ground. As his head fills with minor ringing, he looks to the face of the other. As their eyes meet, he feels there is almost an uneasy familiarity to them.

A moment of silence is held between the two before the sound of wheels is heard once more. Before he can think, he takes hold of them and rolls off to the side, using them to propel both of them out of the way of the incoming basket. He quickly gets up as cars honk and people from the store run after the two. He only gets one more quick glance at the stranger on the ground who he attempts to take a picture of before running off around the store.

***

You watch as the seemingly more suspicious suspect gets away, your chest still trying to get back the air knocked out of you. He could have been running because the two are seemingly insane trying to mow everyone down with a heavy basket but it did not help that he is still running, at an alarming speed as well...

You see the Jims being dragged back into the store by the workers and you facepalm. You're going to have to clear up the mess for those two.

As you head back inside, you try to picture the face of the individual in your head. If anything, you can try to see if anyone back at the office happened to know him or something.

***

The first encounter with the Detective. Not exactly what the Author had in mind when picturing the meeting but not exactly dissatisfying either. No, the 'Jims' certainly made the event more _open_ but it appears this is some normal occurrence around the two. Google does, in fact, stand out with his choice of clothes but, surprisingly, those two were the only ones to grow suspicious. But was it for the right factors?

The Author muses to himself, attempting to spare the Jims more than a travelling thought or two before shrugging them off, choosing to try and figure them out at a later time. The Detective though was a bit naive standing in front of what could have been the equivalent of a bulldozer. Getting the air knocked out of them was merely a courtesy. He wouldn't be so kind next time.

"Next time..." The Author chuckles to himself knowingly. They have no idea what is in store for them.


	9. Chapter 9

**_A.N. Me, says I’ll never put an author’s note here. Ha!_ **

**_But listen! I made a game, go check it out if you would like. It is a short visual novel game that includes Wilford and Darkiplier being in maid outfits and acting as hosts in a café! If you’re interested, here is the site:_ ** [ **_ https://nightezra.itch.io/ego-maid-cafe _ ** ](https://nightezra.itch.io/ego-maid-cafe) ****

**_Alright, onto the story!_ **

  
  


Google sits there, staring at the picture of the person he ran into just the day before. He did not manage to snatch a good picture of them and, looking back at the footage, it almost did not seem like they were actually _present_. Like they weren't fully there even though Google recalls clearly staring into their eyes...

It is strange. He had tried to see if the Author knew anything about it but he merely shrugged him off when he began asking questions. He considers a couple of possibilities before beginning to scan through old works by the Author. Maybe this is some sort of connection to the story he is part of? The Author did say it wouldn't be a true story if he knew what was going to happen but if he can figure it out without _directly_ asking him, Google can stand a chance.

He only made it through two of the books before he heard his name being called. He sighs, getting up and going over to see the Author holding another cup of coffee. How much coffee has he consumed since last night?

"Google, we are going to try again with the person down the hall."

Google blinks. "What...? You remember what happened last time."

"Yes, when he was your owner. But now you are almost of your own. What would seal the deal is if you do not have an owner."

Google blinks, not connecting the dots immediately. "But he is my—...Oh. _Oh_."

Google recalls that one of his functions is to kill but...He never had anything against the guy as far as he can recall. It does not seem like it would mean anything. For complete control over what he has come to be, does it have to be this way?

"Do I have to kill him? Can't I just ask him to remove ownership or something??"

The Author watches him with bored eyes. "Google. The one thing you are meant to be good at is killing. He needs to be the first."

"But why? Why can't I kill some murderer or even a shoplifter, why do I have to kill _him—_ "

"You need this to develop, Google. In time, you'll see. Right now though..." He picks up a crowbar that Google did not remember being in the apartment, promptly tossing it to him to catch. "You need to follow instructions. If you cooperate, everything will be fine."

"...And if I don't?"

The features of the Author seem to darken despite his maintained smile. "Do you really want to know the answer to that question, Google?"

Google only offers a stare at the other, not giving him the satisfaction of a nervous gulp. He walks past the Author, crowbar in hand. If he follows instruction, then he can find out more, maybe even get an answer about who that person is.

He walks over to the door and offers a couple of knocks, the haze of the Author writing taking hold in his head. As the door opens, he finds him and the other engaged in a stare off. "You would think by now you would check the peephole. It does serve a function."

Before Matthias has a chance to close the door, Google walks in, closing the door behind him. "Wh-What are you doing here?? You aren't real, am, am I in a dream?? That has to be it—I just, I just have to pinch myself, ha ha!"

Google tilts his head, raising the crowbar up. "I have a better idea." He smacks the man across the face and he goes down. Google places a hand on him and a screen pops up with a list of his vitals available. Another update...

He shakes his head, seeing the man is still very much alive. He considers killing him in the apartment but hears a voice in another room. He blinks as information becomes available: a wife. Of course he has a wife.

He shakes his head, trying to make a decision. If he stays, he may be caught, if he leaves, he fails, if he leaves with him, he can get spotted.

He looks over to the windows where he spots the fire escape. He only has a moment to think about it before he decides to go for it, picking up the individual and heading to the fire escape. He makes quick work of the window and exits, closing the window just as the wife walks in. He steps down the stairs quickly, the weight of the individual practically nothing in his hands. He has yet to hear anything from the Author, which could be a good thing. _Could._

He knocks on the metal of the stairs, hoping it would suffice as wood. He reaches the bottom and kicks down the ladder. He slides down a bit faster than expected and finds them both crashing to the ground, Matthias bouncing off to the side. He recuperates quickly, taking hold of the male and making his way forward on the seemingly empty sidewalk. Looking around, he notices there is a car with an open trunk. "..." He glances around for the driver but, upon finding none, he quickly stuffs the individual into the trunk. Just as he moves to go to the front, he runs into someone.

"Ah, sorry, I—..."

Google stares at them. Why are they here?!

The individual raises their hands. "I—I know you said—"

"LEAVE."

"Look, please, hear me out?? I've been doing some thinking and I think I know why you're acting like this. I know last time I needed help I was very, very pushy and I wouldn't let you anywhere near me. I get it, it's hard to forget something like that and, and I'm sorry. But remember, we promised we would talk things out next time?" They reach forward, taking hold of his hands. "I don't care how much trouble you're in, I want to be here for you. I'm not leaving you alone, not like this. You and I, we can get through this. Just let me help you—..." They look down to Google's hands and notice a bit of blood. "Greg? Why...why is there red paint on your hands? Are, are you taking up painting or something?"

"..."

Before Google can say anything else, the driver of the vehicle comes over and tells them both to get out of the way. Google sees their keys and moves, tugging them out of their hand and quickly getting into the car, driving off before anything else can be done.

**"That individual seems to be persistent, Google. Why not let them help? They can be an excellent little addition to the story—you and they could be pals."**

He shakes his head as he turns down the next street. "I don't want them part of this."

**"You say that like this is a bad thing, Google. I'm hurt."**

Google lets out a laugh, not buying a bit of it. "Just leave them alone."

**"I'm trying but...it's so hard when they seem to keep finding themselves in the narrative. It really is tempting."**

"You want me to cooperate?? You can't bring them into the story, that's that."

**"Are you really trying to give me a requirement, Google? I do not have to listen to you** **_or_ ** **give you free will."**

"...Please."

Google strains to hear something, anything but finds that the Author has gone quiet. He sighs, hoping that he did not upset him as he turns off to another intersection. He just needed to get some distance, that's all.

***

The Author walks out of the apartment and sees the driver giving a report to the police, the other person present keeping his distance but watching where Google had driven off, his features soft, but hurt.

"You seem like you've seen better days," the Author offers, making the other jump.

"Ah-uhm, yeah, just, y'know. It's crazy, this guy over here was just trying to get into his car and then some person just took their keys and took off! It's, it's crazy...yeah..." He nods to himself, holding his skateboard close.

The Author watches him. "That doesn't seem to be all that's on your mind."

The other blinks. "O-Oh? Well, I mean, it's not—it is! It is, all of that is on my mind, yeah." He shakes his head. "I mean, what is it to you? Who are you anyway? I don't remember asking you to try and evaluate who I am."

"I am merely a stranger who took concern, I meant no harm."

The other's shoulders dropped. "O-Oh...Sorry, I just, I'm not the best right now. I think...I think I may have been dumped." He shakes his head, wiping his eyes. "Ah, sorry, that's uhm, erm, weirder to say aloud. Didn't like that."

The Author watches him. "...You're boring."

The other blinks. "What?"

"If you were dumped in a way that had no coming back from, shouldn’t you be angry? Furious??"

"I, well, I mean, I loved him." He covers his mouth, tears pricking more. "I-I..."

"Mm..." The Author shakes his head. "Boring. Go get a tissue or something."

The other looks at him, completely flabbergasted by what he said. "I—GO TO HELL!" He throws his skateboard down and skates off, leaving the Author smiling to himself. He hums, entering into the building once more, allowing the gears in his mind to turn.

***

Google steps out of the car and looks around. No one is in sight...

He breathes, heading around to the back and opening up the trunk. The moment he does, he finds two feet angled at him. He is knocked backwards and Matthias steps out. "LOOK, I, I think, I think I know you! Y-Y'know, y'know, hah, when that other guy knocked me out the other day, it didn't occur to me that you and him would share the same batting arm! Except you," he laughs, looking at the car. "You hit me with a _CROWBAR_."

Google sits up and allows the individual to let out all of the rambles inside of him before speaking. "I know this is not an ideal situation—"

"Not an ideal situation, oh, yeah, finding out my wife and I live next to a couple of CRAZY PEOPLE is certainly not ideal, oh yeah. While we are at it, why don't we think of when you were delivered to my apartment! And then shorting out when I asked you a question, really, you sold that fever dream to me." He looks around. "And what was next? Hm? You take me out here to kill me??" He laughs.

Google stays quiet, watching him.

"...W-Wait, wait you're, YOU'RE GOING TO KILL ME?!"

"SHUSH!" He quickly gets up and goes towards the other who moves back to the car, climbing on top of it.

"LEAVE ME ALONE! PLEASE!" He whines to himself, holding his face in his hands as he asks how he manages to find himself in these situations. "What do you want?? Money??? Something, I, I, I don't know, please, man, you can't do this to me I—I don't wanna diE!"

"IF YOU DON'T WANT TO DIE THEN SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME!"

Matthias immediately shuts up.

"Okay, you have to listen to me very, _very_ carefully. If we screw this up, I cannot guarantee you will see your wife again."

"What are we gonna do?"

***

**"Google looks over to the freshly made grave. Burying the victim alive, hm?"**

Google nods, beginning to walk to the car. "I'll get rid of the car and then walk home."

**“Alright, I will have another assignment waiting for when you get back—Wait."**

Google stops, trying to maintain a perfect calm about the situation. "What?"

**"Google looks around him again...Hm, must be nothing. Get back here soon."**

Google nods, going over to the car and beginning to drive off, the haze of the Author leaving. Google had given him a straw to breathe under the earth until he was ready to move...Google only hoped that he would listen to him and stay low. If he was found alive, it could mean the end for them both.

Of course, this would mean that they need to move before that happens. The lease _is_ ending. It could just be a matter of convenience.

He begins looking for other apartments in the area, maintaining a clear focus on the road at the same time.


	10. Chapter 9

"Can you explain why you're following me again?"

The Jim with the camera zooms in on your face as the other speaks up. "Well, if _someone_ hadn't let the letter man get away then we would be following _them_."

"Look, you two needed someone to speak up for you or you would've been put in jail."

"Wouldn't have been the first time..."

"...What—"

"Shush shush, anyway," he crouches to the ground again, looking around. "It seems like you attract the mysterious letter man. Not only did you spot him but you rammed into him like a couple of magnets colliding together at light speed!"

You shake your head, going over and picking him up. "Look, you want to stick around while I work? Fine, but you have to walk normally."

"But, this is the way of the Jims! If we do not follow our ancestors in their footsteps, how can we hold the title of Jim??"

"Er..." He pushes up his lower lip and holds his hands together, giving you the biggest puppy dog eyes.

"...Fine. Fine! Just, try not to get in the way, okay? The lady probably doesn't need to think I have a couple of crazies with me looking for her husband."

"YES! ONWARD, JIM!" Your eye twitches. "I mean, onward, Jim," he whispers, stepping towards the apartment with careful steps.

You look at the building in its entirety, counting the stories and making careful observation of the fire escape. You enter the building and inquire about the location of the room you were searching for, the Jims zooming in on the face of the individual. You can only offer an apologetic smile before dragging the two with you to the elevator.

You reach the floor without too much trouble considering the two walking around in a seemingly order-like fashion while maintaining their crouched positions. Part of you hopes they are just playing around with you but another part tells you they are completely serious in their endeavor.

You go to the door and knock after clarifying the door number. The wife answers the door. "Ah, you're the detective, right?"

You nod, showing your badge. "You said that your husband went missing recently?"

"Yes. Ah, please, come in—Who are they?" She wags her finger to the Jims who are currently scouting around the hallway.

"My, er, associates. They are just going to take a look around and see if they can find anything off."

"Oh, uh, alright. Well, come in?" 

Jim quickly scours ahead. You partially expect the same of the other Jim but he seems to be looking down the hall at something else. "Jim, come on."

He turns to you with the camera, nodding and crouching to the ground, following after the other Jim. Before you are able to see what Jim was looking at, your attention is brought towards the woman speaking, trying to give you a run through about who they are and what she recalls happening.

"I know usually you have to wait for someone to be gone for 48 hours but I have a feeling he doesn't have that much time."

"That's normal, ma'am. Can you tell me about what happened the afternoon he went missing?"

"Excuse me," Jim pipes up, peering into a cabinet, "You seem to be missing a plate."

"What?" Amanda blinks, confusion taking hold of her features.

You smile weakly. "Uh, sorry, my colleague is, er, a fan of plates?"

She appears to buy that and continues giving information, you offering the other a glare as they begin to look through the other cabinets. You should have told them to leave.

"He didn't say he was going anywhere?" you ask.

"No, he didn't say anything actually. I didn't even hear the door open at all. The car is still there too. If he was heading somewhere, he would take it, even the closer places."

"Mhm. Has he ever done something like this? What is his schedule like—"

"Look, Jim, a _hammer_. Strange seeing something like this in a kitchen."

You offer a smile to Amanda before turning back to the other two, giving a look to signal for them to quit screwing around. But they fail to catch the drift as they travel further into the place. "I'm sorry—"

"Your colleagues are very, er, thorough?"

"Yes, yes! They are, yes. They like to make sure they have a complete idea of what's going on."

“They kind of look familiar."

You laugh a little. "They get that all the time." You continue working with getting an idea of their schedules.

As you go to ask another question, you hear Jim ask, "Did you unlock this window?"

"Jim," you start.

"Wait, it's unlocked?" Amanda travels over to them. "I don't usually open these windows..."

You blink, heading over to the group. "Step aside," you pull out your fingerprint kit and dust for prints. You find none. "Whoever opened this must've been wearing gloves," you mutter, looking around. "And you said you didn't hear the door open?"

"Well, I don't believe I did. I was playing some music..." She looks to the window again.

"Is your husband someone to run away?"

"What? No, no. Without saying anything? No. He wouldn't."

"Mm." You open the window. "I'm going to go check it out—"

"We got this!" The Jims scramble out of the window without skipping a beat.

"Oookay then." You shake your head, looking out from the apartment. You see that there are skid marks on the road, not too old by the looks of it. "Has there been any suspicious activity in your area recently?"

"Mm, no, not really. Then again, I don't pay attention to the news much."

"Was your husband acting stranger than usual?"

"No. Well. He had a couple of nightmares he had convinced himself were true."

"Nightmares?"

"Yes but, you see, he'll freak out over the silliest things. I doubt it has anything to do with him missing."

“Well, tell me about them."

"Well, he said he was making a video about this new product, uh, some kind of android?" Her eyebrows furrow. "It was sort of like a maid I guess? Or meant to act like one but couldn't seem to figure out how to do anything like washing dishes or laundry."

You pencil the details in your notebook, the idea of an android sounding a bit off but it was still something to at least keep in mind. "What else?"

"I think he made it short out and then tried to repackage it? But someone knocked on the door and knocked him out."

"Someone? Someone you know or...?"

"Oh, no, I don't think so. We don’t know anyone who carries around bats."

"Hm..." You end the note just as the other two came back. "Anything?"

"Other than the fire escape seemingly easier to knock down and someone yelling in a towel, no, not really."

"Wait, repeat that?"

"Someone yelling in a towel?"

"No, the other thing."

"No, not really?"

"The other thing!"

"...And—?"

"FORGET IT!" You breathe before recalling your client is still very much present. "Sorry, it's, been a long week. I may have to go and get some input from the neighbors below and around, someone probably saw something. What I'm wondering more though is why there aren't signs of a struggle..."

"I mean, there _is_ a plate missing," Jim pipes up again.

You look at the news reporter Jim. "If the plate was used as a weapon, we would notice the shards or, at least, Amanda would've. It's been a day though."

"Mm..." The Jim stalks around the place.

"Y'know," Amanda starts, "maybe he went out to go see about cameras? I know that he was missing his but he would've said something about getting one. And it doesn't take this long to get back from the store."

You nod, taking note. "We'll check around just to make sure. I'll let you know if we are able to find out anything."

She nods, taking you and the Jims to the door. "Thank you again. If I remember anything else from that day, I'll contact you."

You nod, offering a smile. As soon as the door is closed, you turn to the Jims. "Why were you two so focused on plates??"

"Well, she _is_ missing a plate from one of her sets. Usually people will replace those, y'know."

"Do they?"

"...The Jims replace their plates. But! This 'Amanda' person seemed to have no interest in it. It actually seemed like she didn't know what we were talking about."

"Hm."

A door opens up and you hear a voice speaking, sounding strangely familiar. "I don't understand why I have to go with you to look at this place. I trust you know what an apartment looks like." The individual has a messy head of hair mostly attempted to be guiding in an upward fashion. Dark hair, steady build, and—

He looks over to you and the Jims, pausing. It takes him a moment or two before he closes the door he came from. "Hello."

There is an awkward pause held between the four, the Jims choosing to keep their distance instead of jumping ahead to investigate. You see cameraman Jim look to you and then look at the stranger.

You finally speak. "Hello, do you have a minute? I would like to ask you some questions."

"What about?"

"We are doing an investigation for a missing person. If you can help by answering some questions we would appreciate it."

He nods slightly. "I can do that."

***

The Author watches the Detective as they question him. This is definitely them, seemingly dragging around the Jims in tow. He tries to avoid looking at the camera and even asks if it is necessary, claiming to not like being on camera. Eventually the camera is taken away but not without heavy interrogation from the one holding a mic.

He answers evenly about where he has been and what he has or has not heard. He claims to be mostly a hermit so he hardly steps out. Of course, he did happen to hear something on the street, stating that he thinks someone's car was taken. Whose, he is not sure but there is bound to be a police report.

"Alright, thank you. Can I get a name for the report?"

The Author watches them. "Can it be kept under Anonymous? If there happens to be any leads based on what I said, I don't want there to be a way to connect me."

"Well, a name is usually preferred. We keep track of our reports pretty well."

"Oh really? Hm, then I guess I must've read about a file getting misplaced about a Witness Protection client elsewhere."

The Detective pauses. "Look, I keep track of things I keep. If there are other questions I have, I need to be able to contact you."

"I have nothing else to say and if you really need to find me," he points to the door. "This is my current residence." The Detective doesn't budge. "The more time you waste here trying to get a name is more time you waste on finding whoever is missing. Who knows, your suspect could be getting away now. Your friends there made sure to make quite a bit of ruckus. Nervous people get antsy." He chuckles. "But, I suppose I shouldn't have to tell _you_ this, Detective."

He sees the Jim with the mic whispering something to the Detective. They frown but scribble down the number of the door. They pull out a card. "If you remember anything else, give me a call."

The Author smiles placidly. "Of course. Goodbye."

The Detective watches his eyes for a moment or two longer before they are pulled away by the Jims. The first conversation. A treat indeed.

***

"I didn't like that guy," Jim says, the other nodding.

"I didn't either, seems like a pain in the ass," you mutter, getting into the elevator and seeing him stare at you. Not a harsh stare but not exactly a pleasant one either. Just as they are about to close completely, you swear you see someone stepping out with a blue shirt. Before you can confirm your thoughts, the doors close.

"Are you alright?"

"...Yeah. Just thought I saw something."


	11. Chapter 10

_"Greeeeg."_

_"Hm?"_

_"It's getting late, don't you gotta go to work?"_

_"Mm, I'll just call in."_

_"Really?"_

_"Of course. How can I possibly leave my adorable Ben-Ben?"_

Google watches the memory, trying to imagine how it felt to hold...‘Ben Ben’ close like that. He watches how they just laid there, content with doing absolutely nothing. Ben in his _—Greg's—_ arms. Content.

He scrolls through other salvaged memories, curiosity of his old life driving him. Plenty of memories where he has Ben secure in his arms, others where they're joking around, the occasional kiss or two, and...

He pauses on one memory that seems rather distorted. An option to restore it pops up.

"..."

He clicks yes and waits for it. Soon enough, a clear video comes up with Ben shaking.

_"GREG! I—I can't, I screwed up!"_

_"We can fix it, just tell me what's wrong."_

_"You can't do anything, no one can. I'm not, this is, this isn't any of your business. You shouldn't have to deal with any of this!"_

_"I want to help you, Ben."_

_"No one can help me. Just, just leave me alone, I can't put this on you. I don't want to see you get hurt."_

_"I want to be here for you. Let me be here for you."_

_"...Greg..."_

_"I will always be here for you, Ben. Through the good, the bad, the ugly, I have your back. Let me be here for you. We'll get through this. Together."_

Google allows himself to recall how it felt having Ben hold his hands the other day. They seemed so assured, secure even. As though nothing could ever get past them and everything would be okay. But Google couldn't let him anywhere near this life. If any part of him really cared for him, he cannot allow him to get involved in this story.

This is something he has to deal with, alone.

"Google."

Google jumps, closing the screen quickly. "Y-Yes?"

The Author raises an eyebrow. "What were you doing?"

"Er, just, looking over some articles."

"Mhm..." He shrugs. "Well, it's time to go after your next victim."

He blinks. "Wh, already? But, we just started to move things to the other place. And that detective person was just by here again, we need to get out of here."

"I understand that but that shouldn't concern you. Nothing that deals with me should concern you. What _should_ concern you," he holds up a journal part of him feels he has seen before, but where?, he is uncertain, "is your part in the story. You have needs as a character. You need to grow into who you are and who you are meant to be. You can't do that if you're here squabbling over moving trivialities. Do you understand?"

"How are you going to get things moved?" Google asks.

He smiles which, from what Google has learned recently, is not really a good thing. "I'll get it sorted. For now though, it seems like you are running late."

He blinks. "Late? To where?"

"Well, that's for me to know and for you to find out. Now go."

"...Where though??"

The Author's eye twitches. He opens up the journal and begins scribbling down something.

Google feels himself stand, walking towards the door but running into the wall a couple of times before proceeding to actually go through the walkway. He continues down the hall until he reaches the front door which he fails to open and, instead, walks into it. He tries to move his hands but catches onto a voice.

 **"Google could not do anything for himself. It seems Google is incapable of doing even the simplest of things such as opening a door without being told to. Sometimes it is a wonder how he is meant to be an intelligent robot doing much of anything. All he can do is walk into things. Poor,** **_poor_ ** **thing."**

"Okay okay stop! Please, I can move, I can move!"

**"You can? Are you sure?"**

Before Google has a chance to answer back, he becomes completely stiff, his lips sealing shut. He feels the Author stand next to him, leaning close to his ear as he whispers, "You do not get to ask questions. You are a character in _my_ story. Do not forget that." He opens the door, hitting Google and causing him to fall backwards. As he falls to the floor, he gains back control of his limbs. "Now go."

Google only offers him a single glance before heading out the door, said door slamming closed behind him. He stands there for a moment, trying to understand what he has gotten himself into. This isn't some game and it does not seem like the end is anywhere in sight.

He pauses, thinking back on the other narratives he had read. Those characters were not fictional characters.

They were real. Just like him.

Everything that happened to them was real—

 **"Would you care to be chased out of the building with a bat or will you** **_move it?_ ** **"**

Google lingers only a moment more before heading out, thoughts running rampant in his mind, his system once again threatening to short out but he couldn't allow that, not now. He needs to stay awake. Alert for whatever the hell the Author has planned next.

***

So, the Author did not actually have someone for Google to go after. He simply wants to observe what Google does on his own. Google does not understand that the writing is conveyed through what is given and what is taken. The Author could do whatever he would want to the character whenever he would feel like it but it is the job of the character to work with what is given. If the Author interferes too much, the story becomes dull and one sided. People can be unpredictable, even androids who are not completely certain in who they are can change.

The Author needs him to write out a story, a series even if he stays and cooperates. As long as he does that, then the Author will guide him around and do as he sees fit in his new life. Whenever he interferes with it, it'll only be to cause tension. One has to keep the story going after all. In a world with infinite possibilities, there needs to be _some_ order.

With that thought, the Author heads outside, following a couple of blocks behind Google and maintaining the distance, his journal on hand to write whatever needs to be written. He can worry about scribbling away the location of Google's things to the new apartment later.

***

"So you got another tip at a hot dog stand?" you ask as Jim orders a few hot dogs.

"Yes, yes we were told that the letter man was walking around here, somewhere..."

"That'll be 6$, sir," the hot dog vendor says.

Jim goes to pull out his wallet but comes up with a small notebook instead. "Oh no. Jim, Jim my wallet has suddenly transformed into...a notebook!" He looks into it. "With no words!!! How are we ever going to feast on the warm buns, the juicy meats of the not-dog? We're doooomed."

"..." You sigh, forking over the cash. "Here, come on, we have work to do."

"Thank you, Detective. We promise that this food is essential for us to solve this case. We will catch this letter man!" He hands cameraman Jim a couple of hot dogs before squatting on the ground, hobbling forward. You roll your eyes as the other follows in suit, you soon doing the same...normally, of course.

"So, where was he spotted?"

"Well, that's the thing," he looks around. "He was walking on this street, back and forth. Multiple times, seemingly unable to make up his mind. Hardly anyone really noticed him despite how he is walking around with a single letter on his shirt! That actually appears to glow, much like the moooon..."

"Some people just don't pay attention. It's on a blue shirt as well so it probably is just pushed as some t-shirt. His other features don't really make a stark contrast to others either."

"Mm...the Jims don't trust letters. They can mean anything, anything at all. Even the word letters can mean other things..."

"Word letters?" you dare to ask.

"Yes, the 'word' letters. You take some letters that seem to make a word but THEN!" He turns back to you, holding his microphone up close to him. "Each letter has a separate meaning! For example: F.U.N. What does that spell?"

“Fun?”

“YES. BUT!” He looks around. “Each letter means something different. It could mean Friends, U and me, and aNywhere and any time at all. OR!” He turns back to you. “Fire that burns down everything, Uranium, and No survivors—”

“You are seriously referring to Spongebob? _A kid’s show?_ ”

“...Maybe. It is very informative and still makes our point.”

"..." You hold your head. "Alright, word letters, right. So you think this 'G' holds some sort of meaning?"

"That will connect us to our mysterious fire-house person, yes, yes." He hobbles forward. "Like “Gas”."

"Do you really think it would be _that_ obvious?" you walk ahead of the lot. "I mean, if they really wanted to be captured, there are other ways of doing it. The G has to stand for something else..."

"Like what? Guardian? Gorilla? Perhaps they _are_ secretly a hairy beast; it would explain why they were so strong! With their four arms—"

"I thought he had two?"

"Hush hush hush—" He looks into one of the buildings. "Perhaps it could mean something like Grapes. Blue shirt, darken it a bit and suddenly, he's a grape! It would make perfect sense."

"...Except that he's not a grape."

"We haven't tried to eat him. He could be _disguised_ as a human. Yes, yes it's all coming together..."

You take a breath wondering how the hell it is that the two ever really got involved in any of the cases before. They associate the most random things together and believe in it entirely, and yet somehow, _somehow_ they manage to actually locate people that can be suspects for something. And this person, whoever they were, they didn't want to stick around for questions.

Of course, again, they could've been running for other matters: such as the Jims. They can be their own kind of scary. Still, it doesn't completely add up. If you could find them, maybe you can get some answers. At least erase him from the list of suspects and more onto the victim of two demonic crawling people.

You feel someone shove past you with a hollow "Sorry" exiting from them before continuing on their way. They are wearing a grey suit, dark hair...but that's all you can see. For some reason, your gut churns and you feel extremely uneasy as they continue on. It even feels like it's cold—

"Dark! Oh dear," another person bumps into you and faces you. The first thing you notice is the mustache plastered on his face, curling up on the ends with hints of...pink? "Sorry about my friend there, he's, uh, had a long day." Your eyes meet his and he stops talking for a moment, tilting his head. "Do I know you?"

Before you can ask what he means, he looks behind him again. "Shoot, I'm going to be late to the party. Uh, another time!" He runs ahead, leaving you and the Jims baffled. Brownish suspenders, yellow shirt, beige pants...

The Jim with the mic stands up next to you, not looking to you but, rather, watching them intently. "Do you know them?" he asks, almost quietly.

"What, do you think they're involved in the case?"

"..."

You have not seen Jim this quiet before, not immediately hopping around from place to place. He is nearly still. "Jim?"

He blinks, shaking his head and looking over to you. "Yes?"

"Are you alright? You kind of went silent there."

"I did? Hm." He looks down to the ground for a moment before crouching again, hobbling forward. "Come, we should see if any of the owners in these buildings noticed him. Maybe there is someone who saw him!"

You raise an eyebrow, looking over to the other Jim who simply followed him in suit. Is no one going to talk about what happened??

You push out a sigh, shaking your head and making a little note to ask the two about it later. There's always time to ask about these things later...

Just as you are about to go into the first building, you hear cars screeching and crashing somewhere in the distance. You blink, looking to the Jims but they are already running to the scene. "I, guys!" You run after them, putting away your notes and keeping watch of your surroundings. What the hell happened??


	12. Chapter 11

*[Redacted] minutes earlier*

Google walks around, not entirely sure where he is meant to go but not caring enough to try and guess. He has other things to worry about, such as how long he is meant to be caught up in this story of his. Some stories were straggling one-offs, not really being able to push the envelope. Usually those ended in the main character dying for “not listening”.

"..."

Google shakes his head, maintaining an even pace. They aren't the only ones though, he did have a series. It followed some psycho who always seemed to be going into places he shouldn't be and chased by unseen things. He had a series running, a successful one too. It went on and on until, suddenly, there wasn't another part. The character hadn't died and it genuinely seemed like it was planned to be continued...

What could've happened to them? Did they find a way out?

Google blinks at the mere possibility of there being a way out. If whoever they were figured out how to step out of it, then it can't be impossible. Maybe, maybe there's a chance for Google to get out of this. Maybe not completely human but still, freedom? From this mess?

He nods, allowing part of himself to run research on the last book of the series, see what had happened. Maybe see if there is any record of the person somewhere. If they are alive—

He stiffens, looking around to check his surroundings. People pass around him easily, not bothered by anything in the slightest. He could've sworn he felt someone was following him but no one seemed to even bat him an eye. He lingers a moment or two longer before allowing himself to fall back in line with the crowd. He cannot get distracted, not right now. The Author could be watching his every move...But he isn't writing anything. Can he see him without doing so?

He eases on the questions, feeling his mechanical brain beginning to be overworked. He needs to stick with what he can find out for now and use that to help him. He looks into one of the buildings and sees someone looking back at him before looking away again. "..."

He steps inside, standing in the doorway as he scans the area. A little ice cream parlour. Simple set up: a glass display showing the tubs of ice cream, chalk boards showing the menu behind them. Some flowers in vases and other artwork guided around to bring forth a cheery sort of atmosphere. It seems like it works for most...save for one individual whose level of concern seems to be on the rise.

He looks over to them again and notices how quick they are to look away, not wanting to maintain eye contact. He raises an eyebrow, going over to them. "Hello?"

They look over to him, eyes wide. “You're the letter man."

He blinks. "The letter man?" They nod. "What do you mean?"

"The Jims have been reporting about you. They have been trying to find you."

"But why? What do they want with me??" They jump. "Answer the question, I need to know. Come on, you can't just leave it at that."

"I don't know! I swear, I just know they're walking around with some detective and, when you ran off the other day, it made you even more suspicious."

"For what??"

"I don't—"

"Listen here, my friend," a voice behind him interrupts. "I don't want to have to hurt anybody, it's the last thing on my mind, really!" Google's eyebrows furrow as he listens in, suddenly noticing the level of concern in the other people rising. "I just want to know if there is any chance to make more of the strawberry ice cream! I know it's a popular flavor so I imagine you have some extra in the back!"

"Wilford, just order something else."

"But Dark, really, it shouldn't be hard to go and at least _check_. What are they getting paid for anyway?"

Google looks over to the cash register and notices one person is rather loosely holding a gun. He doesn't seem to be entirely focused on the situation but still has the gun pointing at the cashier enough for them to not move a muscle. The man holding the gun has a mustache with pink at the ends where it curls up, the other standing with him and trying to talk him down in a suit. Something feels off about them.

Before Google knows what he is doing, he finds himself taking a picture of them, the sound of the capture echoing. He finds his systems trying to figure out who they are, taking hold of most of his sight as it tries to look up anything about the two but coming up short. Anything that came up was glitched out, others seemingly pages of interrupted code and not showing anything. He finds himself trapped trying to find something, _anything_. He cannot stop searching, his system is frying with the amount of effort he is pushing into finding something. He tries to shut it down as he notices others coming closer to him but he is unable to move.

Before he can short circuit, he feels something cold and wet make contact with his head and the search is canceled. He breathes, looking up to see Wilford looking at him, raising an eyebrow. "Huh, you're a bit early to the party, aren't you? You're not supposed to be here yet."

He blinks. "Wh, What?"

Wilford chuckles, shaking his head. "If we all asked that, we really would be catching ourselves running on a hamster wheel."

"Wilford, we need to go." The other one approaches but as Google goes to look at them, he notices their face isn't staying together. He blinks, trying to check his systems to see if there is an issue with seeing but it's as though the face does not _want_ to be seen. Google understands he is looking at him but he is unable to keep him still long enough to register anything.

He sees them lean forward and finally is able to register their eyes: hints of red and blue mixed together, but not exactly staying in one place. There's a constant shift to them...

"What the fuck..." Google mutters.

"Hmph." They stand up again, readjusting their tie. "Wilford, let's get going before the police arrive."

"Oh, do you think we might see our friend again? I told you I saw them at the club recently, didn’t I? Bully, we had a blast!"

"Perhaps, Wilford. Perhaps." The two walk out and there is a silence left behind.

Google finds himself moving first, heading out after the two, whatever cold substance on his head still very much there. They know him, they know him?? How the hell do they know him, what did they mean he is early?? What is he early to? Is this a way out, going out of order??

He runs outside, looking around before spotting the two walking off. "Wait, WAIT!" He runs after the two without thinking, the cars swerving to miss him and running into each other. He feels his system trying to tell him to reach safety but he keeps running after them. He has to know who they are.

***

**“He turns around—he stops running—the incoming bus just narrowly misses him—”**

"What the hell is he doing?!" The Author shakes his head, following after with the protection of the mess of crashed cars. "He isn't listening, why isn't he listening?? How did he figure out how to do that, he's an idiot!" He growls, squeezing his pen in his hands as frustration sets in. He follows, scribbling away and trying to get a hold of him. He just needs a moment of uncertainty, a moment where he doesn't know what he is doing, a moment where his actions pause. If he can get that moment, if he can _create_ that moment for him...

He nods, allowing himself close his eyes, letting the energy flow onto the page as he prepares to trap the runner. He just needs to find the moment.

…

A smirk plays on his lips as he locates the perfect opportunity.

***

"Hey! Stop!" Google pushes forth, going against any logic and continuing. He sees them round a corner and sprints forward. He can't lose them.

He uses the pole at the corner to swing himself forward, only

**"to find he is in the middle of the woods. Alone."**

He freezes up, looking around. "Fuck." He shakes his head as he tries to figure out where he is.

**"Google fails to find his own location as he is disconnected from the satellite. A shame really as it fails to allow him to look up anything. In the middle of nowhere he is bound to get lost.** **_But_ ** **, perhaps if he moves, he can find a way out."**

Google stays still, trying to work out how this is even remotely possible. There is no sense to it, he just suddenly appears in the woods?? How does any of this make any sense to anyone???

" **Google is taking too long to move. He does not realize the dangers raking the area around him."**

"How are you doing this?!"

**"...Google seems to have forgotten who he is questioning. A little reminder barrels towards him from behind."**

Google hears quick movement behind him and pauses, turning to see a huge bear but something was wrong. It is completely drained of color, the face of the creature pulled like taffy, its eyes a bright red.

And it is heading right for him.

He runs, finally appeasing the Author as he makes his way forward, the two he was following earlier nothing but a lost memory. He needs to make sure he can stay alive through this, he cannot end up like the others. He needs to survive.

***

The Author breathes, allowing himself to relax on the wall as he closes the journal. He'll let the eldritch bear run after him, teach him a lesson about running off and trying to be of his own. Google does not understand the position he is in. A shame.

He breathes, looking around and noticing someone walking by. He is adorned with a stark red suit that just screams asshole. He doesn't seem to fit into the style though as his face seems worn down, drained almost, his hair an utter mess despite his suit looking perfectly pristine.

He takes one look at the Author as he passes. "What are you looking at?"

"You."

He frowns. “Well, mind your own business!"

"But your business appears to be more interesting currently."

"Oh shut up, don't you know who I am?"

"I'm afraid not."

He scoffs. "What, have you been living under a rock or something??"

"A cabin more like it, but, for the sake of your argument, sure."

He stares at him, completely unamused. " _I_ am _the_ Markiplier. The greatest actor of all time!"

The Author blinks, recalling the name somewhere in his memory. "You're the one who usually has your name in all caps almost entirely covering the screen when your name pops up in the credits, correct?"

He smirks. "The one and only. I should really be alone on those credit reels. I am, after all, the star of the show."

The Author stares at him. He doesn't seem to be anywhere near the age he should be if that is the case. "...Are you a copycat?'

He blinks. "What?! No! I'm _the_ Markiplier. Do you have something wrong with those ears of yours?"

"You're not old enough to _be “the”_ Markiplier."

"...Oh." He pulls his hair back. "I have, uh, special creams for that sort of thing." A phone starts ringing and the man pulls it out, muttering about how they're in _that_ timeframe before walking off, leaving the Author curious. Not enough to pull him away from the matter at hand but perhaps they will meet again.

He goes to find a secure location to continue writing about Google, minding his surroundings. As he steps down the street back to the chaos he had caused trying to save Google, he notices a particularly familiar trio. The gears in his mind turn as he thinks of a perfect scene.

This will be fun.


	13. Chapter 12

You look around at the mess of a road in front of you, seeing officers and ambulances make their way in to help assist those you and the Jims haven't already pulled out. Whatever happened had the cars drive just about anywhere except whatever was in the road. You have seen car crashes before but nothing to this extent. It's almost like they engaged in an unplanned game of bumper cars, except most stuck to one another and others left people injured.

"Geezus..." You shake your head, taking note of the time and looking around. You notice the Jims heading back. "Find anything?"

"The Jims have asked around and absolutely no one is quite sure what happened EXCEPT!" He holds up a finger. "There was a guy running into the street."

"A guy? That could be anyone."

"A guy! _In a blue shirt._ "

You raise an eyebrow. "You think our guy did all this?" you refer to the mess with the end of your pencil.

"Of course! Can't you see the destruction here? Perhaps the 'G' could mean 'grind', like grinding the cars together!"

You raise an eyebrow. "Now it seems like you're really grasping for straws."

"Of course not! Jims do not need straws." You continue your stare. "...Unless, of course, you have one Jim could borrow? My brother Jim here can always use one, can't you, Jim?"

The cameraman holds his head, letting the camera look to the ground.

"A-Are you the Jims?"

You blink, turning along with the Jims to see a pedestrian stepping over.

Before you are given the chance to say anything, the Jims step forward. "Yes! I am Jim, and this is my brother, Jim."

"I-I watch your news channel all the time! I knew you would come! I saw the letter man and then this car crash happening; I was really hoping you'd come."

You blink, coming over. "Wait, you saw the letter man??"

They nod quickly. "He saw me staring and came to ask me questions, I told him I had seen him on the news and then he started questioning me but before I could say anything else, there were these two robbers. I don't know what happened to the letter man but when he looked at the two, he seemed to stop moving all together. His head even steamed up!"

"Wait, steam??"

"Steam, of course! Heat, fire, steam, gas, yes, yes!" News reporter Jim holds the microphone up to the person. "Tell us what happened next! We must know!"

"Well, uh, one of the robbers saw him doing that and came over and stuck an ice cream cone on his head? It seemed to work as he started moving again. They talked and then the robbers left, the letter man guy following."

"Ice cream?? Right, right, to quench the inner fire! Yes, yes this has to be the guy!"

"Wait," you look over to the ice cream shop and notice there is a small trail of drops leading away from the area. "Guys, we gotta go."

"Wait, the Jims aren't done questioning! Detective!"

You fail to wait and follow after the trail, determined to see wherever it would lead you. Maybe he was close! You cannot miss him.

***

Google is still running away from the amalgamation of a bear. He's been trying to call out for the Author to stop this but he is not responding and Google’s battery is draining. If this keeps up, he will be out of battery in the middle of a forest subject to whatever the hell else is out here. He does not want this place to be the end.

There are two choices: Fight, or hide. If he fights, he wastes more energy. If he hides, maybe he can bypass this thing altogether. The problem with hiding is that this thing is running right behind him; there is no way it will just let him go. Either way, he is thoroughly screwed.

"Here we go." He turns around and begins charging right back, fist out in front of him. The bear roars and barrels forward.

The two collide and the bear flies back a few feet. He breathes as he sees it get up, shaking its head before roaring, charging at him once more.

"Shit."

He can't do another blow like that. This is it.

He braces himself.

"I'M KING OF THE SQUIRRELS!"

He hears something collide into the bear and, when he opens his eyes, he sees a man in a...king outfit?? wrestling with the bear.

Before he has a chance to understand what is going on, he sees the man take something glossy from his face and stuff it into the open jaw of the bear. The bear attempts to roar but finds whatever he stuck in there is preventing them, instead making it hard to do much of anything. The man hops off soon after, looking over to Google to show he has peanut butter over the lower half of his face...

Google's eyes widen. He knows him. He knows him??

Faint memories begin to click together as he recalls bundling up in a blanket, reading about the man adorned in kingly clothing, running around and taking care of a kingdom. But how?? He shouldn't be here, this, there's no way!

The other tilts his head at him before hearing the bear stirring. "I'm-I'm-I'm—We should go." He runs towards Google, taking his hand and running to a tree. "Can blue man climb?"

"What—?"

Before he has a chance to confirm or deny the ability, the man wraps Google's arms around his neck and proceeds to climb, somehow carrying Google with him. The man wastes no time in jumping from tree to tree with unreasonable speed and Google is left gawking. This should be entirely impossible and this man, this man—

He hops to another tree with little to no effort at all. This man is dead!

***

You continue jogging after the trail, curiosity leading you on more than anything. It's bound to get you hurt one of these days, or worse, _killed_. But you cannot let fear control your life. You need to know what is going on and the only way you are going to be able to do so is if you go after it.

You see the trail turn and, as you turn, you see it suddenly stops. You blink, looking around.

Either they are here or they just magically disappeared.

You take your gun out, not wishing to chance the fantasy. You're in the real world; none of that hocus pocus actually happens and last you recalled, they weren't wearing any hats.

You know there is no way the trail would've dried up sooner than the previous droplets which were exposed to the sun. It doesn't seem to go down the road either and, unless the person ate the thing in whole, there would have been some sort of puddle indicating that it was there, or the ice cream would be somewhere there.

But there is nothing.

You lower your gun, confusion taking hold of your features.

"Are you lost?"

You jump, quickly turning and pointing your gun at...

You lower your gun. "Mr. Anonymous."

He chuckles. "Is that what you're really referring to me as now? “Mr. Anonymous”?" He muses over the name a moment or two longer before saying, "I like it. Anyway, I'll ask again: Are you lost?"

"No." You look around again. "I was tracking down a suspect; have you seen anyone here?"

He shakes his head. "No, no I was just walking down the way. I heard an accident a few blocks back but, otherwise, I haven't seen much of anyone."

"Yeah, there was...There was a big accident just a few blocks over there, mm..." You sigh, putting your gun back on the holster. "No one can just disappear," you mutter.

"Hm?"

You look over to the man again. "Ah, uh, I was just saying how no one can just disappear. I was following a trail and now the person is gone. It doesn't make any sense."

"Oh." He looks around. "Well, I'm sure you've seen magicians and things of the like. Aren't they famous for that kind of thing?"

"Heh, I doubt this guy is a magician." You pull out your notebook and begin scribbling down the location to look into it later.

"Oh? How can you be so sure?"

"Well, for one, their clothing doesn't exactly speak ‘magician’ to me. Secondly, none of the ways they've attempted escaping thus far have really involved any real magic to them...save, maybe, the inhuman speed and all. But that could have easily been a thwarted perception."

"Oh." He looks around. "Well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you not everything is as it seems."

You blink. "...What do you mean by that?"

He hums, walking past you while pulling out what appears to be a journal, a pen following soon after. "I simply mean that, sometimes, things are the way they are. There's not always a rhyme or a reason to any of it...at least, any reason you can openly _see_."

You raise an eyebrow, turning towards him. "What do you—mean..."

He's gone.

"Where the hell..."

"DETECTIVE!" You turn around to see the Jims catching up to you. "Did the detective find the letter man??" He looks around. "Where is he? Is he hiding? Maybe he is hiding in plain sight—INVISIBILITY! The G is a lie, it hides the I just a couple of letters away. Smart, smart, BUT NOT SMART ENOUGH FOR THE JIMS!" He throws himself at the wall of the building, inevitably falling back onto the ground, holding his now bleeding nose.

You sigh, not at all surprised by him. As you go to help him up, you once again look around for the anonymous guy. Part of you wonders if he has anything to do with this letter guy but...maybe you could be overthinking it. The Jims certainly have been going off with their tangents and getting closer to finding this guy than not. It doesn't always make sense but maybe they see things differently.

Maybe they can actually find this guy, get some answers.

...When they are done inspecting the walls for an invisible man, that is.

***

The Author lingers in the alley as the Detective meets up with their cohorts, listening as confusion sets in. He wonders to himself if the Detective even noticed the journal or if they were too focused on what he was saying...Either way, they'll get to the end of their tale.

When his character decides to be compliant, that is.

The Author does not linger long but does not immediately go back to narrating Google. Either he lives or he gets torn apart; the fun part about that is that he can be rebuilt. No matter how many times he is broken, shut down, it all can be reset with just some repairs. It may help to make him understand his place...

He chuckles, continuing his slow walk back to the apartment.

***

Google and the man continue hopping around from tree to tree but he appears to be slowing down. Google is still baffled at the mere idea of him being alive. He tries to leave recalling the memories to a later time since his battery is still heading down. He'd need to enter Low-Battery mode soon but he needs to be somewhere safe to even attempt that.

So, he settles on keeping his focus towards holding the man's neck.

Eventually, the man hops down to the ground, Google still gripping onto him like a lifeline. He lowers him to the ground and steps away. Google glances around their location and notices a rather large hole in a tree, seemingly hand carved. Around on the surrounding trees are more slabs of the gooey paste which he now recognizes to be..."Peanut butter..."

The man's head pops up, looking over to Google as he holds up a fresh glob of peanut butter to his face.

Google watches him in complete awe, not believing his eyes. "You're alive?!"


	14. Chapter 13

The man raises an eyebrow. "...I'm King of the Squirrels? Egh, forgive me." He shakes his head, taking a breath. "What do you mean? Do I know you? Or, did I know you?" He holds his head. "Memories aren't I’m King of the Squirrels—dammit."

Google shakes his head "No, no no no I don't know, well, I mean I didn't know you for whoever you were before but I read your story! You're the King of the Squirrels, ruler of the kingdom North Acorn Haven?"

The other man blinks. "You've “read” my story? What do you mean?" He continues applying the peanut butter to his face as though he is only applying a face mask.

"I read your story. I know about your adventures and what happened with the kingdom, your subjects. I remember you went mad with anger and blood lust and sent out forces to attack at the humans who tried to take over your domain, steal your people away. You, you went insane! As you fought on the battlefield, you got injured! And then, and then you got lost in the woods chanting who you are over and over again, eventually left to bleed out as the humans got what they wanted in the end..."

"..." The King looked away, holding the side of his stomach. "That is not what happened."

Google blinks, confusion masking his features. "What do you mean?"

He pulls his lips in, seemingly in thought and probably the most serious Google never imagined he could be. He was usually so aloof really, even when he would go out in front for a war, part of him still never fit that part of being a “king”, which he did enjoy to some extent, certainly made the old him feel somewhat normal...

"Who are you?" the King asks.

"Oh, uh, I'm Google."

The other blinks. "...I'm-I'm-I'm King of—" He shakes out of the repeat. "Search engine?"

"Er, it's a long story. I was a human but then I volunteered to get changed into an android and...well, here I am."

"...That was not a long story."

"Well, there's more to it. There's this guy that's an author that coordinated everything and now leads me from place to place as he writes to hopefully complete some story he has in mind—"

"Wait." He comes closer to him, too close. Google tenses, moving to back away but only to have the King pull him close, looking into his eyes closely. Google stares into his eyes, confusion clearly saturating his features as the other continues staring. He is not entirely sure why he is doing this but it is not exactly problematic or anything. It is just odd.

"...You share my glasses."

Google blinks. "...What??"

The other shakes his head, pushing him away. "I mean, they are not here."

He blinks. "...You mean the Author?" The other nods. "You saw that by looking into my eyes??"

He nods. "Yes. I'm King of the Squirrels—Hm." He holds his head. "I have not spoken to anyone else in a long time. At least, I think it has been a long time. It is hard to tell." He stands up again, going over to one of the trees with peanut butter and sits down on his knees. He mutters some words to it, seemingly lost in his own world.

Google's memories are faint but he believes it is a ritual of sorts. What it does, he isn't sure but whatever it is, it requires the King to take some peanut butter from his face and apply it to the tree. More words are muttered and, as Google tries to see if he can understand any of it, the King stands up, going over to him again.

He stares at him for a good while before saying, "It is much like possession. That is, the voice in your head. It tells you what to do, what to think, what to say and it is almost like a fever dream."

Google blinks. "Yes, yes! And, and it feels like there's a bit of a haze when he is watching you."

The King blinks. "So it was not just a fever...I should have known." He shakes his head. "I...I have not always been...y'know."

"You were someone else. Before being the King of the Squirrels, like me."

He nods, holding his head. "But, I do not recall much of anything. Really, I thought for the longest time that past life was just some dream I had. Some intricate, long, long dream that I could not let go of. But when I went to interact with other humans, it all sort of came back. People _knew_ me. Well...whoever I was. But I just thought they were trying to humanize me, convince me of something else; the voice told me not to listen to them. I played right into their hands." He sighs.

"Do you remember how you became king of the squirrels? At all?"

"My mother and father were the previous king and queen of the place. When they passed away—no. No no no, that is, that's the made up part!" He laughs, holding his head. "It, it was all made up. Just living in someone else's delusions—someone's _story_! Told to kids!" He strains out another laugh, seemingly losing it.

At this rate, Google will not get anywhere. "Alright, alright, so what really happened then?"

The King pauses. "...I-I cannot remember. I think I was just walking in a forest. It is the one routine I usually do. And then..." He trembles, shaking his head as he pulls his knees to his chest. "Why can I not remember?"

"...“Your old life doesn't matter anymore”..."

The other looks up. "Wh, What?"

"..." Google comes closer to him. "He likely took away the memories he felt weren't important for you to keep. He needed you to play your part, he didn't need you to remember who you were."

"...Oh." He looks down. "So they're gone? Just, poof?"

"It seems like it..." He shakes his head. "But, you're not being controlled by him anymore, right? You, you've been out of the story for a long while, haven't you?"

He nods. "Yes, I'm-I'm-Squirrels-I'm—" He holds his head. "I. Escaped."

"How? How did you do it??"

"I went mad." He laughs wearily. "I could not take the confusion. I understood I was split into two worlds. When I did not feel that soft glowy feeling in my head, I was alone, in my own thoughts, uninterrupted by the voice. I understood that it was not a conscience or something speaking but something that dictated my every move. I could not take it anymore. But how could I get out of it?" He chuckles. "I only had one real choice."

"...You were supposed to win the battle, weren't you?"

He looks over to him, smiling weakly. "It was the only way. I took the injury. It was not bad but I still retreated. I found myself muttering that phrase over and over again as I went. I could hear the confusion butchering whoever the voice was. I could hear them trying to get me to go back to the field, to finish the war, to continue but what kind of life would I lead after that?" He shakes his head. "So I kept crawling. I kept crawling and repeating that stupid, stupid phrase over and over. I could not stop for days. I felt him watching me for so, so long...

"And then: it stopped. Silence. I was free."

"If you were free, why haven't you come back to society? Why do you stay in this place?"

He looks around. "I got lost in here. I could not navigate my way back and always found myself going in circles. It is as though this place does not _want_ me to leave." He looks over to the direction they came from. "That bear there is not the only thing that lives here with us. More monsters, lost creations, they linger. They are a danger that makes me lose track of where I am." He sighs.

"..." Google gets up. “I'm not out of the story yet. He's still here. If he comes back and sees that you're here, _alive_...I can't imagine what he'll do to you."

The other tenses, getting up quickly. "I-I cannot do that again. I can't, I can't I can't I can't—"

"I know, I know. I need to get somewhere else. Do you think you can help me? He needs me still and I need to be found alone. If I can get out of this, I'll come find you."

The other watches him intently. "You are a kind person."

Google offers a sideways smile. "I wouldn't exactly say that but you can think that."

The king nods, picking up Google and jumping into the trees, taking off once more.

***

The Author took his time getting each and every piece of furniture over to the new residence, not rushing any stroke of the pen. But, eventually, there were no more items to get over to the new place and he is left in a rather empty apartment.

He pulls out Google's journal curiously, flipping the pages open. As he sets the tip of the pen down, he notices Google is pitched up in a tree out of all things. He raises an eyebrow. **"Someone's been busy."**

"A-Author, I-My battery—"

 **"How was the bear? Did you enjoy the little additions to them?"** The Author chuckles to himself as he can see Google trying to remain calm so as to not shut down. **"Tell me: what did we learn?"**

"That you're right, you're always right."

 **"Hm...What else?"** He smirks idly.

"That I should listen to you. That if I listen and comply, then I don't get hurt."

**"And you have to listen the** **_first_ ** **time. I should not have to run after you or repeat myself."**

"Y-Yes. Yes..."

The Author hums to himself. **"Why did you run from me, Google? Don't you know how fruitless running from your destiny is?"**

"I-I'm sorry. I, I didn't mean to."

 **"Oh, you were running pretty far. You almost got hit by cars!"** He tisks. **"I had to protect you from all of those cars. Those poor people, their day interrupted because a character decided to try and run off. Do you like seeing people hurt?"**

"I—"

 **"Trick question, you're an android with the objective to destroy mankind."** The Author pauses to himself. **"Was that the reason you made such a ruckus? You wanted to see those people in pain? To cause a bit of mayhem?"**

"...Yes."

**"Hm. I don't believe you but, I suppose I am inclined to do so. Let's agree to not let something like this happen again, hm? And if you really,** **_really_ ** **want destruction, let me know. I'll make** **_sure_ ** **you put your mark out there."**

He sees Google nod, saving the last of his battery for any further instruction. He chuckles, having Google close his eyes before opening them again in the living room. He looks over to the Author.

"Well, your charging port is over there. Do me a favor: when you wake up, give the tenant the keys. I'll be waiting for you in the morning." He leaves him there and exits the apartment, allowing his bat to hang off his shoulder. Tomorrow is a new day.

***

Google drags himself over to his charging port, unable to move anything else except his arms. He grabs the cord, plugging it into himself and finally being able to recover. He breathes, closing his eyes and thinking about the man in the woods. He thinks about how he got out of it, how he, himself, was able to go against the narrative by not following instruction. He tries to think about how the cases are similar and what the connection is, where the Author's weakness lies.

He breathes once again, the power flowing through him and allowing him to work the rest of his limbs. He needs to be ready to get out. He needs a plan.

He opens his eyes and begins to tiredly create plan after plan, trying to get just the right idea. He will get out of this. He will save the king in the woods. He will...he will...


End file.
